University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


ft  C 


1 


LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN; 


OK, 


ritfos,  Stwratifees,  feags,  anh  J|«ms, 


BY 


MARGARET   FULLER   OSSOLI, 

AUTHOR  OF  "WOMAN  IN  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY,"  "AT  HOME  AND 
ABROAD,"  "ART,  LITERATURE,  AND  THE  DRAMA,"  ETC. 


EDITED  BY   HER  BROTHER, 

ARTHUR   B.  FULLER. 


BOSTON: 
BROWN,    TAGGARD    AND     CHASE. 

NEW  YORK :  SHELDON  &  CO.    PHILADELPHIA :   J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO. 
LONDON :   SAMPSON  LOW,  SON  &  CO. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 

ARTHUR    B.    FULLER, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED  AT  THE 
BOSTON  STEREOTYPE  FOUNDRY. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
PRINTED  BY  H.  0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


PREFACE. 


EVERY  person,  who  can  be  said  to  really  live  at  all, 
leads  two  lives  during  this  period  of  mortal  existence. 
The  one  life  is  outward;  it  is  passed  in  reading  tho 
thoughts  of  others  ;  in  contemplating  the  struggles, 
the  defeats,  the  victories,  the  virtues,  the  sins,  in  fine, 
all  things  which  make  the  history  of  those  who  sur 
round  us ;  and  in  gazing  upon  the  structures  which 
Art  has  reared,  or  paintings  which  she  hath  inscribed 
on  the  canvas  ;  or  looking  upon  the  grand  temple  of 
the  material  universe,  and  beholding  scenes  painted 
by  a  hand  more  skilled,  more  wondrous,  in  its  creative 
power,  than  ever  can  be  human  hand.  The  life  passed 
in  examining  what  other  minds  have  produced,  or  liv 
ing  other  men's  lives  by  looking  at  their  deeds,  or  in 
any  way  discerning  what  addresses  the  bodily  eye  or 
the  physical  ear, — this  is  often  wise  and  well;  essential, 
indeed,  to  any  inner  life ;  but  it  is  outward,  not  self- 
centred,  not  the  product  of  our  own  individual  natures. 

But  the  thought  of  others  suggests  or  develops 

(3) 


4  PREFACE. 

thought  of  our  own  —  the  history  of  other  men,  as  it  is 
writing  itself  imperishably  every  day  upon  their  souls, 
or  already  has  written  itself  in  letters  of  living  light  or 
lines  of  gloomy  blackness  —  gives  rise  to  internal  sym 
pathy  or  abhorrence  on  the  part  of  us  who  look  on  and 
read  what  is  thus  writing  and  written.  Our  own  spirits 
are  stirred  within  us :  our  passions,  which  have  been 
sleeping  lions,  our  affections  and  aspirations,  before 
angels  with  folded  wings, — these  are  awakened  by  what 
others  are  doing,  and  then  we  struggle  with  the  bad  or 
yield  to  it ;  we  obey  or  disobey  the  good,  and  our  in 
ternal  moral  life  begins  ;  the  outward  universe  or  the 
Great  Spirit  in  our  hearts  speaks  to  our  souls,  leading 
first  to  inward  dissatisfaction,  then  to  aspiration  for 
and  attainment  of  holiness,  and  now  the  inner  spiritual 
life,  which  shall  transfigure  all  outward  life,  and  throw 
its  own  light  and  give  its  own  hue  to  all  the  outward 
universe,  has  begun.  These  two  lives  are  parallel 
streams ;  often  they  mingle  their  waters,  and  each  im 
parts  its  own  hue  and  characteristic  to  the  other. 
Sometimes  the  outer  life  is  the  main  stream ;  men  live 
only  in  other  men's  thoughts  and  deeds  —  look  only 
upon  the  material  universe,  and  retire  but  seldom 
within :  the  inner  life  is  but  a  silver  thread  —  a  little 
rill,  scarce  discoverable  save  by  the  eye  of  God.  Again, 
with  many  the  outer  life  is  but  little ;  the  passing 
scene,  the  din  of  the  battle  which  humanity  is  ever 
waging,  the  one  scarce  is  gazed  upon  or  the  other  heard 


PREFACE.  5 

by  those  who  retire  much  from  the  outward  world, 
and  live  almost  exclusively  upon  their  own  thoughts, 
and  in  an  ideal  realm  of  fancy,  or  a  real  one  of  in 
ternal  conflict,  which  is  hidden  from  the  outer  vision. 
Better  is  it  when  the,  stream  of  outward  and  inner  life 
are  both  full  and  broad  —  when  the  glories  of  the 
material  universe  attract  the  gaze,  the  realm  of  litera 
ture  and  learning  invite  the  willing  feet  to  wander 
in  paths  where  poetry  has  planted  many  flowers,  phi 
losophy  many  a  sturdy  oak  of  truth,  which  centuries 
cannot  overthrow  —  and  when,  on  the  other  hand, 
men  do  not  forget  to  retire  often  within,  and  find  their 
own  minds  kingdoms,  where  many  a  noble  thought 
spontaneously  grows  ;  their  own  souls  heavens,  where, 
the  busy  world  withdrawn,  they  commune  much  with 
their  own  aspirations,  fight  many  a  noble  battle  with 
whatever  hinders  their  spiritual  peace,  and  where  they 
commune  yet  more  with  that  Comforter,  the  Divine 
Spirit,  and  Christ,  that  Friend  and  Helper  of  all  who 
are  seeking  to  make  the  life  of  thought  and  desire,  as 
well  as  outward  word  and  deed,  high  and  holy. 

It  is  not  a  brother's  part  to  pass  critical  judgment  upon 
a  sister's  literary  attainments,  or  mental  and  spiritual 
gifts,  nor  is  it  needful  in  reference  to  Madame  Ossoli. 
The  world  never  has  questioned  her  great  learning  or 
rich  and  varied  culture ;  these  have  been  uniformly 
acknowledged.  As  a  keen  and  sagacious  critic  of 
literature,  as  an  admirer  of  whatever  was  noble,  an 
1* 


6  PREFACE. 

abhorrer  of  all  low  and  mean,  this  she  was  early,  and 
is,  so  far  as  we  know,  without  any  question  regarded. 
That  her  judgments  have  always  been  acquiesced  in  is 
far  from  true  ;  but  the  public  has  ever  believed  them 
alike  sincere  and  fearless.  The  life  without,  —  that  of 
culture  and  intelligent,  careful  observation, —  all  know 
that  stream  to  have  been  full  to  overflowing. 

More  and  more,  too,  every  year,  the  public  are  be 
ginning  to  recognize  and  appreciate  the  richness  and 
the  beauty  of  her  inner  life.  The  very  keenness  of  her 
critical  acumen, — the  very  boldness  of  her  rebuke  of  all 
she  deemed  petty  arid  base  —  the  very  truthfulness  of 
her  conformity  to  her  own  standard  —  her  very  abhor 
rence  of  all  cant  and  mere  conformity,  long  prevented, 
and  even  yet  somewhat  hinder,  many  from  adequately 
recognizing  the  loving  spirit,  the  sympathetic  nature, 
the  Christian  faith,  and  spiritual  devoutness  which  made 
her  domestic  and  social  life,  her  action  amid  her  own 
kindred  and  nation,  and  in  Rome,  for  those  not  allied  to 
her  by  birth  and  lineage,  at  once  kindly,  noble,  and  full 
of  holy  self-sacrifice.  Yet  continually  the  world  is 
learning  these  things :  the  history  of  her  life,  as  her 
memoirs  reveal  it,  the  testimony  of  so  many  witnesses 
here  and  in  other  lands,  a  more  careful  study  and  a 
wider  reading  of  her  works,  are  leading,  perhaps 
rapidly  enough,  to  a  true  appreciation  of  the  spiritual 
beauty  of  her  soul,  and  men  see  that  the  waters  of 


PREFACE.  7 

her  inner  life  form  a  stream  at  once  clear  and  pure, 
deep  and  broad. 

In  presenting  to  the  public  the  last  volume  of  Mar 
garet  Fuller's  works,  the  Editor  is  encouraged  to  hope 
for  them  a  candid,  cordial  reception.  It  has  been  a 
work  of  love  on  his  part,  for  which  he  has  ever  felt 
inadequate,  and  from  it  for  a  time  shrunk.  But  each 
volume  has  had  a  wider  and  more  cordial  welcome  than 
its  predecessor,  and  works  received  by  the  great  public 
almost  with  coldness  when  first  published,  have,  when 
republished,  had  a  large  and  cheering  circulation,  and, 
what  is  far  better,  a  kindly  appreciation  not  only  by  the 
few,  but  even  by  the  many.  This  is  evidence  enough 
that  the  progress  of  time  has  brought  the  public  and  my 
sister  into  closer  sympathy  and  agreement,  and  a  better 
understanding  on  its  part  of  her  true  views  and  char 
acter. 

The  present  volume  is  less  than  any  of  its  predeces 
sors  a  republication.  Only  one  of  its  articles  has  ever 
appeared  before  in  book  form.  As  a  book,  it  is,  then, 
essentially  new,  though  some  of  its  reviews  and  essays 
have  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  Tribune  and  Dial. 
A  large  portion  of  it  has  never  appeared  at  all  in  print, 
especially  its  poetical  portions.  The  work  of  collecting 
these  essays,  reviews,  and  poems  has  been  a  difficult 
one,  much  more  than  attended  the  preparation  of 
the  previous  volumes.  Unable,  of  course,  to  consult 


8  PREFACE. 

their  author  as  to  any  of  them,  the  revision  I  have 
given  is  doubtless  very  imperfect,  and  requires  large 
allowance.  It  is  even  possible  that  among  the  poems 
one  or  more  written  by  friends  and  sent  her,  or  copied 
from  some  other  author,  may  have  crept  in  unawares ; 
but  this  all  possible  pains  have  been  taken  to  prevent. 
Such  as  it  is,  the  volume  is  now  before  the  public ;  it 
truly  reveals  her  inner  and  outer  life,  and  is  doubtless 
the  last  of  the  volumes  containing  the  writings  of 
MARGARET  FULLER  OSSOLI. 


CONTENTS. 


PART    I. -REVIEWS. 

Page. 

MENZEL'S  VIEW  OF  GCETHE 13 

GCETHE 23 

THOMAS  HOOD 61 

LETTERS  FROM  A  LANDSCAPE  PAINTER 69 

BEETHOVEN 71 

BROWN'S  NOVELS 83 

EDGAR  A.  POE 87 

ALFIERI  AND  CELLINI 93 

ITALY.  —  GARY'S  DANTE 102 

AMERICAN  FACTS 108 

NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  MARSHALS 110 

PHYSICAL  EDUCATION 116 

FREDERICK  DOUGLASS 121 

PHILIP  VAN  ARTEVELDE 127 

UNITED  STATES  EXPLORING  EXPEDITION 141 

STORY  BOOKS  FOR  THE  HOT  WEATHER 143 

SHELLEY'S  POEMS 149 

FESTUS 153 

FRENCH  NOVELISTS  OF  THE  DAY 158 

THE   NEW  SCIENCE,  OR  THE   PHILOSOPHY  OF   MESMERISM   OR 

ANIMAL  MAGNETISM 169 

(9) 


10  CONTENTS. 

DEUTSCHE  SCHNELLPOST 174 

OLIVER  CROMWELL 179 

EMERSON'S  ESSAYS 191 

CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT .199 


PART    IL-MISCELLANEOUS. 

FIRST  OF  JANUARY 207 

NEW  YEAR'S  DAY 219 

ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY 226 

FOURTH  OF  JULY 232 

FIRST  OF  AUGUST 236 

THANKSGIVING 243 

CHRISTMAS 250 

MARIANA 258 

SUNDAY  MEDITATIONS  ON  VARIOUS  TEXTS.  —  FIRST 277 

"  "  "  SECOND 280 

APPEAL  FOR  AN  ASYLUM  FOR  DISCHARGED  FEMALE  CONVICTS.  .  283 

THE  RICH  MAN.  — AN  IDEAL  SKETCH 287 

THE  POOR  MAN.  — AN  IDEAL  SKETCH 297 

THE  CELESTIAL  EMPIRE 304 

KLOPSTOCK  AND  META 308 

WHAT  FITS  A  MAN  TO  BE  A  VOTER.  — A  FABLE 314 

DISCOVERIES 319 

POLITENESS  TOO  GREAT  A  LUXURY  TO  BE  GIVEN  TO  THE  POOR.  .  322 

CASSIUS  M.  CLAY 326 

THE  MAGNOLIA  OF  LAKE  PONTCHARTRAIN. 330 

CONSECRATION  OF  GRACE  CHURCH 337 

LATE  ASPIRATIONS 344 

FRAGMENTARY  THOUGHTS,  FROM  MARGARET  FULLER'S  JOURNAL.  348 

FAREWELL  TO  NEW  YORK.  .  354 


CONTENTS.  11 


PART    III. -POEMS. 

FREEDOM  AND  TRUTH 357 

DESCRIPTION    OF   A   PORTION    or   THE    JOURNEY   TO    TRENTON 

FALLS 357 

JOURNEY  TO  TRENTON  FALLS 361 

SUB  ROSA  CRUX 365 

THE  DAHLIA,  THE  ROSE,  AND  THE  HELIOTROPE 367 

To  MY  FRIENDS,  (TRANSLATION.) 368 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OP  SEVENTEEN 370 

FLAXMAN 371 

THOUGHTS  ON  SUNDAY  MORNING,  WHEN  PREVENTED  BY  A  SNOW 
STORM  FROM  GOING  TO  CHURCH 371 

To  A  GOLDEN  HEART  WORN  ROUND  THE  NECK 374 

LINES  ACCOMPANYING  A  BOUQUET  OF  WILD  COLUMBINE.     .    .    .  375 

DISSATISFACTION,  (TRANSLATION.) 377 

MY  SEAL-RING 378 

THE  CONSOLERS,  (TRANSLATION.) 379 

ABSENCE  OF  LOVE • 380 

MEDITATIONS 381 

RICHTER 383 

THE  THANKFUL  AND  THE  THANKLESS 384 

PROPHECY  AND  FULFILMENT 385 

VERSES  GIVEN  TO  W.  C.,  WITH  A  BLANK  BOOK 385 

EAGLES  AND  DOVES,  (TRANSLATION.) 387 

To  A  FRIEND,  WITH  HEARTSEASE 388 

ASPIRATION 380 

THE  ONE  IN  ALL 390 

A  GREETING 393 

LINES  TO  EDITH,  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY 394 


1 2  CONTENTS. 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  HER  BROTHER  R.  F.  F's  JOURNAL 395 

ON  A  PICTURE  REPRESENTING  THE  DESCENT  FROM  THE  CROSS.  .  396 

THE  CAPTURED  WILD  HORSE 397 

EPILOGUE  TO  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  ESSEX,  (TRANSLATION.)      .    .    .  400 

HYMN  WRITTEN  FOR  A  SUNDAY  SCHOOL 404 

DESERTION,  (TRANSLATION.) 405 

SONG  WRITTEN  FOR  A  MAY-DAY  FESTIVAL 406 

CARADORI  SINGING 409 

LINES  IN  ANSWER  TO  STANZAS  CONTAINING  SEVERAL  PASSAGES 

OF  DISTINGUISHED  BEAUTY 409 

INFLUENCE  OF  THE  OUTWARD 410 

To  Miss  R.  B 411 

SlSTRUM ' 413 

IMPERFECT  THOUGHTS 414 

SADNESS _.    ...  414 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM 416 

To  S.  C 417 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  BOSTON  ON  A  BEAUTIFUL  AUTUMNAL  DAY.    .  420 

To  E.  C.,  WITH  HERBERT'S  POEMS 422 


3Gfe  imtjnwi  roth  life  toiijjk 


PART    I. 

RE  Y  IE  W  S. 


MENZEL'S   VIEW   OF   GCETHE. 

MENZEL'S  view  of  Goethe  is  that  of  a  Philistine,  in  the 
least  opprobrious  sense  of  the  term.  It  is  one  which  has  long 
been  applied  in  Germany  to  petty  cavillers  and  incompetent 
critics.  I  do  not  wish  to  convey  a  sense  so  disrespectful  in 
speaking  of  Menzel.  He  has  a  vigorous  and  brilliant  mind, 
and  a  wide,  though  imperfect,  culture.  He  is  a  man  of  talent, 
but  talent  cannot  comprehend  genius.  He  judges  of  Goethe 
as  a  Philistine,  inasmuch  as  he  does  not  enter  into  Canaan, 
and  read  the  prophet  by  the  light  of  his  own  law,  but  looks  at 
him  from  without,  and  tries  him  by  a  rule  beneath  which  he 
never  lived.  That  there  was  something  Menzel  saw ;  what 
that  something  was  not  he  saw,  but  what  it  was  Le  could  not 
see  ;  none  could  see  ;  it  was  something  to  be  felt  and  known  at 
the  time  of  its  apparition,  but  the  clear  sight  of  it  was  re 
served  to  a  day  far  enough  removed  from  its  sphere  to  get  a 
commanding  point  of  view.  Has  that  day  come  ?  A  little 
while  ago  it  seemed  so ;  certain  features  of  Goethe's  person- 
2  (13) 


14  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

ality,  certain  results  of  his  tendency,  had  become  so  manifest. 
But  as  the  plants  he  planted  mature,  they  shed  a  new  seed 
for  a  yet  more  noble  growth.  A  wider  experience,  a  deeper 
insight,  make  rejected  words  come  true,  and  bring  a  more  re 
fined  perception  of  meaning  already  discerned.  Like  all  his 
elder  brothers  of  the  elect  band,  the  forlorn  hope  of  humanity, 
he  obliges  us  to  live  and  grow,  that  we  may  walk  by  his  side ; 
vainly  we  strive  to  leave  him  behind  in  some  niche  of  the 
hall  of  our  ancestors ;  a  few  steps  onward  and  we  find  him 
again,  of  yet  serener  eye  and  more  towering  mien  than  on 
his  other  pedestal.  Former  measurements  of  his  size  have, 
like  the  girdle  bound  by  the  nymphs  round  the  infant  Apollo, 
only  served  to  make  him  outgrow  the  unworthy  compass. 
The  still  rising  sun,  with  its  broader  light,  shows  us  it  is  not 
yet  noon. »  In  him  is  soon  perceived  a  prophet  of  our  own 
age,  as  well  as  a  representative  of  his  own ;  and  we  doubt 
whether  the  revolutions  of  the  century  be  not  required  to  in 
terpret  the  quiet  depths  of  his  Saga. 

Sure  it  is  that  none  has  yet  found  Goethe's  place,  as  sure 
that  none  can  claim  to  be  his  peer,  who  has  not  some  time, 
ay,  and  for  a  long  time,  been  his  pupil ! 

Yet  much  truth  has  been  spoken  of  him  in  detail,  some  by 
Menzel,  but  in  so  superficial  a  spirit,  and  with  so  narrow  a 
view  of  its  bearings,  as  to  have  all  the  effect  of  falsehood. 
Such  denials  of  the  crown  can  only  fix  it  more  firmly  on  the 
head  of  the  "  Old  Heathen."  To  such  the  best  answer  may  be 
given  in  the  words  of  Bettina  Brentan :  "  The  others  criticise 
thy  works ;  I  only  know  that  they  lead  us  on  and  on  till  we 
live  in  them."  And  thus  will  all  criticism  end  in  making 
more  men  and  women  read  these  works,  and  "on  and  on," 
till  they  forget  whether  the  author  be  a  patriot  or  a  moralist, 
in  the  deep  humanity  of  the  thought,  the  breathing  nature  of 
the  scene.  While  words  they  have  accepted  with  immediate 
approval  fade  from  memory,  these  oft-denied  words  of  keen, 
cold  truth  return  with  ever  new  force  and  significance. 


MENZEL'S  VIEW  OF  GCETHE.  15 

Men  should  be  true,  wise,  beautiful,  pure,  and  aspiring. 
This  man  was  true  and  wise,  capable  of  all  things.  Because 
he  did  not  in  one  short  life  complete  his  circle,  can  we  afford 
to  lose  him  out  of  sight  ?  Can  we,  in  a  world  where  so  few 
men  have  in  any  degree  redeemed  their  inheritance,  neglect  a 
nature  so  rich  and  so  manifestly  progressive  ? 

Historically  considered,  Goethe  needs  no  apology.  His  so- 
called  faults  fitted  him  all  the  better  for  the  part  he  had  to 
play.  In  cool  possession  of  his  wide-ranging  genius,  he  taught 
the  imagination  of  Germany,  that  the  highest  flight  should  be 
associated  with  the  steady  sweep  and  undazzled  eye  of  the 
eagle.  Was  he  too  much  the  connoisseur,  did  he  attach  too 
great  an  importance  to  the  cultivation  of  taste,  where  just 
then  German  literature  so  much  needed  to  be  refined,  polished, 
and  harmonized  ?  Was  he  too  sceptical,  too  much  an  experi 
mentalist,  —  how  else  could  he  have  formed  himself  to  be  the 
keenest,  and,  at  the  same  time,  most  nearly  universal  of 
observers,  teaching  theologians,  philosophers,  and  patriots  that 
nature  comprehends  them  all,  commands  them  all,  and  that  no 
one  development  of  life  must  exclude  the  rest  ?  Do  you  talk, 
in  the  easy  cant  of  the  day,  of  German  obscurity,  extrava 
gance,  pedantry,  and  bad  taste,  —  and  will  you  blame  this 
man,  whose  Greek,  English,  Italian,  German  mind  steered  so 
clear  of  these  rocks  and  shoals,  clearing,  adjusting,  and  calm 
ing  on  each  side,  wherever  he  turned  his  prow  ?  Was  he  not 
just  enough  of  an  idealist,  just  enough  of  a  realist,  for  his 
peculiar  task  ?  If  you  want  a  moral  enthusiast,  is  not  there 
Schiller?  If  piety,  of  purest,  mystic  sweetness,  who  but 
Novalis  ?  Exuberant  sentiment,  that  treasures  each  withered 
leaf  in  a  tender  breast,  look  to  your  Richter.  Would  you 
have  men  to  find  plausible  meaning  for  the  deepest  enigma, 
or  to  hang  up  each  map  of  literature,  well  painted  and  dotted 
on  its  proper  roller, — there  are  the  Schlegels.  Men  of  ideas 
were  numerous  as  migratory  crows  in  autumn,  and  Jacobi 
wrote  the  heart  into  philosophy,  as  well  as  he  could.  Who 


16  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

could  fill  Goethe's  place  to  Germany,  and  to  the  world,  of 
which  she  is  now  the  teacher  ?  His  much-reviled  aristocratic 
turn  was  at  that  time  a  reconciling  element.  It  is  plain  why 
he  was  what  he  was,  for  his  country  and  his  age. 

Whoever  looks  into  the  history  of  his  youth,  will  be  struck 
by  a  peculiar  force  with  which  all  things  worked  together  to 
prepare  him  for  his  office  of  artist-critic  to  the  then  chaotic 
world  of  thought  in  his  country.  What  an  unusually  varied 
scene  of  childhood  and  of  youth  !  What  endless  change  and 
contrast  of  circumstances  and  influences  !  Father  and  mother, 
life  and  literature,  world  and  nature,  —  playing  into  one 
another's  hands,  always  by  antagonism !  Never  was  a  child 
so  carefully  guarded  by  fate  against  prejudice,  against  un 
due  bias,  against  any  engrossing  sentiment.  Nature  having 
given  him  power  of  poetical  sympathy  to  know  every  situa 
tion,  would  not  permit  him  to  make  himself  at  home  in  any. 
And  how  early  what  was  most  peculiar  in  his  character 
manifested  itself,  may  be  seen  in  these  anecdotes  related  by 
his  mother  to  Bettina. 

Of  Gosthe's  childhood.  —  "  He  was  not  willing  to  play  with 
other  little  children,  unless  they  were  very  fair.  In  a  circle 
he  began  suddenly  to  weep,  screaming,  '  Take  away  the  black, 
ugly  child ;  I  cannot  bear  to  have  it  here.'  He  could  not  be 
pacified ;  they  were  obliged  to  take  him  home,  and  there  the 
mother  could  hardly  console  him  for  the  child's  ugliness.  He 
was  then  only  three  years  old." 

"  His  mother  was  surprised,  that  when  his  brother  Jacob 
died,  who  had  been  his  playmate,  he  shed  no  tear,  but  rather 
seemed  annoyed  by  the  lamentations  of  those  around  him. 
But  afterwards,  when  his  mother  asked  whether  he  had  not 
loved  his  brother,  he  ran  into  his  room  and  brought  from 
under  his  bed  a  bundle  of  papers,  all  written  over,  and  said 
he  had  done  all  this  for  Jacob." 

Even  so  in  later  years,  had  he  been  asked  if  he  had  not 


17 

loved  his  country  and  his  fellow-men,  lie  would  not  have  an 
swered  by  tears  and  vows,  but  pointed  to  his  works. 

In  the  first  anecdote  is  observable  that  love  of  symmetry  in 
external  relations  which,  in  manhood,  made  him  give  up  the 
woman  he  loved,  because  she  would  not  have  been  in  place 
among  the  old-fashioned  furniture  of  his  father's  house ;  and 
dictated  the  course  which,  at  the  crisis  of  his  life,  led  him  to 
choose  an  outward  peace  rather  than  an  inward  joy.  In  the 
second,  he  displays,  at  the  earliest  age,  a  sense  of  his  vocation 
as  a  recorder,  the  same  which  drew  him  afterwards  to  write 
his  life  into  verse,  rather  than  clothe  it  in  action.  His  indi 
rectness,  his  aversion  to  the  frankness  of  heroic  meetings,  is 
repulsive  and  suspicious  to  generous  and  flowing  natures ;  yet 
many  of  the  more  delicate  products  of  the  mind  seem  to  need 
these  sheaths,  lest  bird  and  insect  rifle  them  in  the  bud. 

And  if  this  subtlety,  isolation,  and  distance  be  the  dictate 
of  nature,  we  submit,  even  as  we  are  not  vexed  that  the  wild 
bee  should  hide  its  honey  in  some  old  moss-grown  tree,  rather 
than  in  the  glass  hives  of  our  gardens.  We  believe  it  will 
repay  the  pains  we  take  in  seeking  for  it,  by  some  peculiar 
flavor  from  unknown  flowers.  Was  Goathe  the  wild  bee? 
We  see  that  even  in  his  boyhood  he  showed  himself  a  very 
Egyptian,  in  his  love  for  disguises ;  forever  expressing  his 
thought  in  roundabout  ways,  which  seem  idle  mummery  to  a 
mind  of  Spartan  or  Roman  mould.  Had  he  some  simple  thing 
to  tell  his  friend,  he  read  it  from  the  newspaper,  or  wrote  it 
into  a  parable.  Did  he  make  a  visit,  he  put  on  the  hat  or 
wig  of  some  other  man,  and  made  his  bow  as  Schmidt  or 
Schlosser,  that  they  might  stare,  when  he  spoke  as  Goethe. 
He  gives  as  the  highest  instance  of  passionate  grief,  that  he 
gave  up  for  one  day  watching  the  tedious  ceremonies  of  the 
imperial  coronation.  In  daily  life  many  of  these  carefully 
recorded  passages  have  an  air  of  platitude,  at  which  no  wonder 
the  Edinburgh  Review  laughed.  Yet,  on  examination,  they 
are  full  of  meaning.  And  when  we  see  the  same  propensity 
2* 


18  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

writing  itself  into  Ganymede,  Mahomet's  song,  the  Bayadere, 
and  Faust,  telling  all  Gosthe's  religion  in  Mignon  and  Maka- 
na,  all  his  wisdom  in  the  Western-Eastern  Divan,  we  respect 
it,  accept,  all  but  love  it. 

This  theme  is  for  a  volume,  and  I  must  quit  it  now.  A 
brief  summary  of  what  Goethe  was  suffices  to  vindicate  his 
existence,  as  an  agent  in  history  and  a  part  of  nature,  but  will 
not  meet  the  objections  of  those  who  measure  him,  as  they 
have  a  right  to  do,  by  the  standard  of  ideal  manhood. 

Most  men,  in  judging  another  man,  ask,  Did  he  live  up  to 
our  standard  ? 

But  to  me  it  seems  desirable  to  ask  rather,  Did  he  live  up 
to  his  own  ? 

So  possible  is  it  that  our  consciences  may  be  more  enlight 
ened  than  that  of  the  Gentile  under  consideration.  And  if 
we  can  find  out  how  much  was  given  him,  we  are  told,  in  a 
pure  evangelium,  to  judge  thereby  how  much  shall  be 
required. 

Now,  Goethe  has  given  us  both  his  own  standard  and  the 
way  to  apply  it.  "  To  appreciate  any  man,  learn  first  what 
object  he  proposed  to  himself;  next,  what  degree  of  earnest 
ness  he  showed  with  regard  to  attaining  that  object." 

And  this  is  part  of  his  hymn  for  man  made  in  the  divine 
image,  "  THE  GODLIKE." 

"  Hail  to  the  Unknown,  the 
Higher  Being 
Felt  within  us ! 

"Unfeeling 
As  nature, 
Still  shineth  the  sun 
Over  good  and  evil ; 
And  on  the  sinner, 
Smile  as  on  the  best, 


MENZEL'S  VIEW  OF  GCETHE.  19 

Moon  and  stars. 
Fate  too,  &c. 

"  There  can  none  but  man 
Perform  the  Impossible. 
He  understandeth, 
Chooseth,  and  judgeth ; 
He  can  impart  to  the 
Moment  duration. 

"  He  alone  may 
The  good  reward, 
The  guilty  punish, 
Mend  and  deliver ; 
All  the  wayward,  anomalous 
Bind  in  the  useful. 

"  And  the  Immortals, 
Them  we  reverence 
As  if  they  were  men,  and 
Did,  on  a  grand  scale, 
What  the  best  man  in  little 
Does,  or  fain  would  do. 

"  Let  noble  man 
Be  helpful  and  good ; 
Ever  creating 
The  Right  and  the  Useful ; 
Type  of  those  loftier 

Beings  of  whom  the  heart  whispers." 

This  standard  is  high  enough.  It  is  what  every  man  should 
express  in  action,  the  poet  in  music ! 

And  this  office  of  a  judge,  who  is  of  purer  eyes  than  to  be 
hold  iniquity,  and  of  a  sacred  oracle,  to  whom  other  men  may 


20  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

go  to  ask  when  they  should  choose  a  friend,  when  face  a  foe, 
this  great  genius  does  not  adequately  fulfil.  Too  often  has 
the  priest  left  the  shrine  to  go  and  gather  simples  by  the  aid 
of  spells  whose  might  no  pure  power  needs.  Glimpses  are 
found  in  his  works  of  the  highest  spirituality,  but  it  is  blue  sky 
seen  through  chinks  in  a  roof  which  should  never  have  been 
builded.  He  has  used  life  to  excess.  He  is  too  rich  for  his 
nobleness,  too  judicious  for  his  inspiration,  too  humanly  wise 
for  his  divine  mission.  He  might  have  been  a  priest ;  he  is 
only  a  sage. 

An  Epicurean  sage,  say  the  multitude.  This  seems  to 
me  unjust.  He  is  also  called  a  debauchee.  There  may 
be  reason  for  such  terms,  but  it  is  partial,  and  received,  as 
they  will  be,  by  the  unthinking,  they  are  as  false  as  Men- 
zel's  abuse,  in  the  impression  they  convey.  Did  Goethe  value 
the  present  tot)  much  ?  It  was  not  for  the  Epicurean  aim  of 
pleasure,  but  for  use.  He,  in  this,  was  but  an  instance  of 
reaction,  in  an  age  of  painful  doubt  and  restless  striving  as  to 
the  future.  Was  his  private  life  stained  by  profligacy? 
That  far  largest  portion  of  his  life,  which  is  ours,  and  which 
is  expressed  in  his  works,  is  an  unbroken  series  of  efforts  to 
develop  the  higher  elements  of  our  being.  I  cannot  speak  to 
private  gossip  on  this  subject,  nor  even  to  well-authenticated 
versions  of  his  private  life.  Here  are  sixty  volumes,  by  him 
self  and  others,  which  contain  sufficient  evidence  of  a  life  of 
severe  labor,  steadfast  forbearance,  and  an  intellectual  growth 
almost  unparalleled.  That  he  has  failed  of  the  highest  fulfil 
ment  of  his  high  vocation  is  certain,  but  he  was  neither  Epi 
curean  nor  sensualist,  if  we  consider  his  life  as  a  whole. 

Yet  he  had  failed  to  reach  his  highest  development ;  and 
how  was  it  that  he  was  so  content  with  this  incompleteness, 
nay,  the  serenest  of  men  ?  His  serenity  alone,  in  such  a  time 
of  scepticism  and  sorrowful  seeking,  gives  him  a  claim  to  all 
our  study.  See  how  he  rides  at  anchor,  lordly,  rich  in  freight, 
every  white  sail  ready  to  be  unfurled  at  a  moment's  warning ! 


MENZEL'S  VIEW  OF  GCETHE.  21 

And  it  must  be  a  very  slight  survey  which  can  confound  this 
calm  self-trust  with  selfish  indifference  of  temperament.  In 
deed,  he,  in  various  ways,  lets  us  see  how  little  he  was  helped 
in  this  respect  by  temperament.  But  we  need  not  his  decla 
ration,  —  the  case  speaks  for  itself.  Of  all  that  perpetual  ac 
complishment,  that  unwearied  constructiveness,  the  basis  must 
be  sunk  deeper  than  in  temperament.  He  never  halts,  never 
repines,  never  is  puzzled,  like  other  men ;  that  tranquillity, 
full  of  life,  that  ceaseless  but  graceful  motion,  "  without  haste, 
without  rest,"  for  which  we  all  are  striving,  he  has  attained. 
And  is  not  his  love  of  the  noblest  kind  ?  Reverence  the 
highest,  have  patience  with  the  lowest.  Let  this  day's  per 
formance  of  the  meanest  duty  be  thy  religion.  Are  the  stars 
too  distant,  pick  up  that  pebble  that  lies  at  thy  foot,  and  from 
it  learn  the  all.  Go  out  like  Saul,  the  son  of  Kish,  look  ear 
nestly  after  the  meanest  of  thy  father's  goods,  and  a  kingdom 
shall  be  brought  thee.  The  least  act  of  pure  self-renunciation 
hallows,  for  the  moment,  all  within  its  sphere.  The  philoso 
pher  may  mislead,  the  devil  tempt,  yet  innocence,  though 
wounded  and  bleeding  as  it  goes,  must  reach  at  last  the  holy 
city.  The  power  of  sustaining  himself  and  guiding  others 
rewards  man  sufficiently  for  the  longest  apprenticeship.  Is 
not  this  lore  the  noblest  ? 

Yes,  yes,  but  still  I  doubt.  'Tis  true,  he  says  all  this  in  a 
thousand  beautiful  forms,  but  he  does  not  warm,  he  does  not 
inspire  me.  In  his  certainty  is  no  bliss,  in  his  hope  no  love, 
in  his  faith  no  glow.  How  is  this  ? 

A  friend,  of  a  delicate  penetration,  observed,  "  His  atmos 
phere  was  so  calm,  so  full  of  light,  that  I  hoped  he  would  teach 
me  his  secret  of  cheerfulness.  But  I  found,  after  long  search, 
that  he  had  no  better  way,  if  he  wished  to  check  emotion  or 
clear  thought,  than  to  go  to  work.  As  his  mother  tells  us, 
'  My  son,  if  he  had  a  grief,  made  it  into  a  poem,  and  so  got 
rid  of  it.'  This  mode  is  founded  in  truth,  but  does  not 


22  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

involve  the  whole  truth.  I  want  the  method  which  is  indicated 
by  the  phrase,  *  Perseverance  of  the  saints.'  " 

This  touched  the  very  point.  Goethe  attained  only  the 
perseverance  of  a  man.  He  was  true,  for  he  knew  that  noth 
ing  can  be  false  to  him  who  is  true,  and  that  to  genius  nature 
has  pledged  her  protection.  Had  he  but  seen  a  little  farther, 
he  would  have  given  this  covenant  a  higher  expression,  and 
been  more  deeply  true  to  a  diviner  nature. 

In  another  article  on  Goethe,  I  shall  give  some  account  of 
that  period,  when  a  too  determined  action  of  the  intellect 
limited  and  blinded  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life  ;  I  mean  only 
in  comparison  with  what  he  should  have  been.  Had  it  been 
otherwise,  what  would  he  not  have  attained,  who,  even  thus 
self-enchained,  rose  to  Ulyssean  stature.  Connected  with  this 
is  the  fact,  of  which  he  spoke  with  such  sarcastic  solemnity  to 
Eckermann  —  "  My  works  will  never  be  popular." 

I  wish,  also,  to  consider  the  Faust,  Elective  Affinities,  Ap 
prenticeship  and  Pilgrimages  of  Wilhelm  Meister,  and  Iphi- 
genia,  as  affording  indications  of  the  progress  of  his  genius 
here,  of  its  wants  and  prospects  in  future  spheres  of  activity. 
For  the  present  I  bid  him  farewell,  as  his  friends  always  have 
done,  in  hope  and  trust  of  a  better  meeting. 


GCBTHE.  23 


GCETHE. 

"Nemo  contra  Deum  nisi  Deus  ipse." 

"  Wer  Grosses  will  muss  sich  zusammen  raffen ; 
In  der  Beschrankung  zeigt  sich  erst  der  Meister, 
Und  der  Gesetz  nur  Kann  uns  Freikeit  geben."  * 

THE  first  of  these  mottoes  is  that  prefixed  by  Goethe  to 
the  last  books  of  "  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit,"  These  books 
record  the  hour  of  turning  tide  in  his  life,  the  time  when  he 
was  called  on  for  a  choice  at  the  "  Parting  of  the  Ways." 
From  these  months,  which  gave  the  snn  of  his  youth,  the 
crisis  of  his  manhood,  date  the  birth  of  Egmont,  and  of  Faust 
too,  though  the  latter  was  not  published  so  early.  They  saw 
the  rise  and  decline  of  his  love  for  Lili,  apparently  the  truest 
love  he  ever  knew.  That  he  was  not  himself  dissatisfied 
with  the  results  to  which  the  decisions  of  this  era  led  him,  we 
may  infer  from  his  choice  of  a  motto,  and  from  the  calm 
beauty  with  which  he  has  invested  the  record. 

The  Parting  of  the  Ways  !  The  way  he  took  led  to  court- 
favor,  wealth,  celebrity,  and  an  independence  of  celebrity.  It 
led  to  large  performance,  and  a  wonderful  economical  manage 
ment  of  intellect.  It  led  Faust,  the  Seeker,  from  the  heights 
of  his  own  mind  to  the  trodden  ways  of  the  world.  There, 
indeed,  he  did  not  lose  sight  of  the  mountains,  but  he  never 
breathed  their  keen  air  again. 

*  "  He  who  would  do  great  things  must  quickly  draw  together  his  forces. 
The  master  can  only  show  himself  such  through  limitation,  and  the  law 
alone  can  give  us  freedom." 


24  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

After  this  period  we  find  in  him  rather  a  wide  and  deep 
Wisdom,  than  the  inspiration  of  Genius.  His  faith,  that  all 
must  issue  well,  wants  the  sweetness  of  piety,  and  the  God  he 
manifests  to  us  is  one  of  law  or  necessity,  rather  than  of  intel 
ligent  love.  As  this  God  makes  because  he  must,  so  Goethe, 
his  instrument,  observes  and  re-creates  because  he  must, 
observing  with  minutest  fidelity  the  outward  exposition  of 
Nature ;  never  blinded  by  a  sham,  or  detained  by  a  fear,  he 
yet  makes  us  feel  that  he  wants  insight  to  her  sacred  secret. 
The  calmest  of  writers  does  not  give  us  repose,  because  it  is 
too  difficult  to  find  his  centre.  Those  flame-like  natures, 
which  he  undervalues,  give  us  more  peace  and  hope,  through 
their  restless  aspirations,  than  he  with  his  hearth-enclosed  fires 
of  steady  fulfilment.  For,  true  as  it  is,  that  God  is  every 
where,  we  must  not  only  see  him,  but  see  him  acknowledged. 
Through  the  consciousness  of  man,  "  shall  not  Nature  inter 
pret  God  ?  "  We  wander  in  diversity,  and  with  each  new 
turning  of  the  path,  long  anew  to  be  referred  to  the  One. 

Of  Goethe,  as  of  other  natures,  where  the  intellect  is  too 
much  developed  in  proportion  to  the  moral  nature,  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  speak  without  seeming  narrow,  blind,  and  impertinent. 
For  such  men  see  all  that  others  live,  and,  if  you  feel  a  want 
of  a  faculty  in  them,  it  is  hard  to  say  they  have  it  not,  lest, 
next  moment,  they  puzzle  you  by  giving  some  indication  of  it. 
Yet  they  are  not,  nay,  know  not;  they  only  discern.  The 
difference  is  that  between  sight  and  life,  prescience  and  being, 
wisdom  and  love.  Thus  with  Goethe.  Naturally  of  a  deep 
mind  and  shallow  heart,  he  felt  the  sway  of  the  affections 
enough  to  appreciate  their  workings  in  other  men,  but  never 
enough  to  receive  their  inmost  regenerating  influence. 

How  this  might  have  been  had  he  ever  once  abandoned 
himself  entirely  to  a  sentiment,  it  is  impossible  to  say.  But 
the  education  of  his  youth  seconded,  rather  than  balanced,  his 
natural  tendency.  His  father  was  a  gentlemanly  martinet ; 
dull,  sour,  well-informed,  and  of  great  ambition  as  to  externals. 


GCETHE.  25 

His  influence  on  the  son  was  wholly  artificial.  He  was  always 
turning  his  powerful  mind  from  side  to  side  in  search  of  in 
formation,  for  the  attainment  of  what  are  called  accomplish 
ments.  The  mother  was  a  delightful  person  in  her  way; 
open,  genial,  playful,  full  of  lively  talent,  but  without  earnest 
ness  of  soul.  She  was  one  of  those  charming,  but  not  noble 
persons,  who  take  the  day  and  the  man  as  they  find  them, 
seeing  the  best  that  is  there  already,  but  never  making  the 
better  grow  in  its  stead.  His  sister,  though  of  graver  kind, 
was  social  and  intellectual,  not  religious  or  tender.  The  mor 
tifying  repulse  of  his  early  love  checked  the  few  pale  buds  of 
faith  and  tenderness  that  his  heart  put  forth.  His  friends 
were  friends  of  the  intellect  merely ;  altogether,  he  seemed 
led  by  destiny  to  the  place  he  was  to  fill. 

Pardon  him,  World,  that  he  was  too  worldly.  Do  not 
wonder,  Heart,  that  he  was  so  heartless.  Believe,  Soul,  that 
one  so  true,  as  far  as  he  went,  must  yet  be  initiated  into  the 
deeper  mysteries  of  Soul.  Perhaps  even  now  he  sees  that 
we  must  accept  limitations  only  to  transcend  them ;  work  in 
processes  only  to  detect  the  organizing  power  which  super 
sedes  them;  and  that  Sphinxes  of  fifty-five  volumes  might 
well  be  cast  into  the  abyss  before  the  single  word  that  solves 
them  all. 

Now,  when  I  think  of  Goethe,  I  seem  to  see  his  soul,  all 
the  variegated  plumes  of  knowledge,  artistic  form  "und  so 
weiter,"  burnt  from  it  by  the  fires  of  divine  love,  wingless, 
motionless,  unable  to  hide  from  itself  in  any  subterfuge  of 
labor,  saying  again  and  again,  the  simple  words  which  he 
would  never  distinctly  say  on  earth  —  God  beyond  Nature  — 
Faith  beyond  Sight  —  the  Seeker  nobler  than  the  Meister. 

For  this  mastery  that  Goethe  prizes  seems  to  consist  rather 

in  the  skilful  use  of  means  than  in  the  clear  manifestation  of 

ends.      His  Master,   indeed,   makes   acknowledgment   of  a 

divine  order,  but  the  temporal  uses  are  always  uppermost  in 

3 


26  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

the  mind  of  the  reader.  But  of  this,  more  at  large  in  refer 
ence  to  his  works. 

Apart  from  this  want  felt  in  his  works,  there  is  a  littleness 
in  his  aspect  as  a  character.  Why  waste  his  time  in  Weimar 
court  .entertainments?  His  duties  as  minister  were  not  un 
worthy  of  him,  though  it  would  have  been,  perhaps,  finer,  if 
he  had  not  spent  so  large  a  portion  of  that  prime  of  intellectual 
life,  from  five  and  twenty  to  forty,  upon  them. 

But  granted  that  the  exercise  these  gave  his  faculties,  the 
various  lore  they  brought,  and  the  good  they  did  to  the  com 
munity,  made  them  worth  his  doing,  —  why  that  perpetual 
dangling  after  the  royal  family  ?  Why  all  that  verse-making 
for  the  albums  of  serene  highnesses,  and  those  pretty  poetical 
entertainments  for  the  young  princesses,  and  that  cold  setting 
himself  apart  from  his  true  peers,  the  real  sovereigns  of 
Weimar  —  Herder,  Wieland,  and  the  others  ?  The  excuse 
must  be  found  in  circumstances  of  his  time  and  temperament, 
which  made  the  character  of  man  of  the  world  and  man  of 
affairs  more  attractive  to  him  than  the  children  of  nature  can 
conceive  it  to  be  in  the  eyes  of  one  who  is  capable  of  being  a 
consecrated  bard. 

The  man  of  genius  feels  that  literature  has  become  too 
much  a  craft  by  itself.  No  man  should  live  by  or  for  his  pen. 
Writing  is  worthless  except  as  the  record  of  life ;  and  no 
great  man  ever  was  satisfied  thus  to  express  all  his  being. 
His  book  should  be  only  an  indication  of  himself.  The  obe 
lisk  should  point  to  a  scene  of  conquest.  In  the  present  state 
of  division  of  labor,  the  literary  man  finds  himself  condemned 
to  be  nothing  else.  Does  he  write  a  good  book?  it  is  not 
received  as  evidence  of  his  ability  to  live  and  act,  but  rather 
the  reverse.  Men  do  not  offer  him  the  care  of  embassies,  as 
an  earlier  age  did  to  Petrarca  ;  they  would  be  surprised  if  he 
left  his  study  to  go  forth  to  battle  like  Cervantes.  We  have 
the  swordsman,  and  statesman,  and  penman,  but  it  is  not  consid 
ered  that  the  same  mind  which  can  rule  th,e  destiny  of  a  poem, 


GCETHE.  27 

may  as  well  that  of  an  army  or  an  empire.*  Yet  surely  it 
should  be  so.  The  scientific  man  may  need  seclusion  from 
the  common  affairs  of  life,  for  he  has  his  materials  before  him; 
but  the  man  of  letters  must  seek  them  in  life,  and  he  who 
cannot  act  will  but  imperfectly  appreciate  action. 

The  literary  man  is  impatient  at  being  set  apart.  He  feels 
that  monks  and  troubadours,  though  in  a  similar  position,  were 
brought  into  more  healthy  connection  with  man  and  nature, 
than  he  who  is  supposed  to  look  at  them  merely  to  write  them 
down.  So  he  rebels  ;  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  is  prouder  of  be 
ing  a  good  sheriff  and  farmer,  than  of  his  reputation  as  the 
Great  Unknown.  Byron  piques  himself  on  his  skill  in  shoot 
ing  and  swimming.  Sir  H.  Davy  and  Schlegel  would  be 
admired  as  dandies,  and  Goethe,  who  had  received  an  order 
from  a  publisher  "  for  a  dozen  more  dramas  in  the  same  style 
as  Goetz  von  Berlichingen,"  and  though  (in  sadder  sooth)  he 
had  already  Faust  in  his  head  asking  to  be  written  out,  thought 
it  no  degradation  to  become  premier  in  the  little  Duchy  of 
Weimar. 

"  Straws  show  which  way  the  wind  blows,"  and  a  comment 
may  be  drawn  from  the  popular  novels,  where  the  literary 
man  is  obliged  to  wash  off  the  ink  in  a  violet  bath,  attest  his 
courage  in  the  duel,  and  hide  his  idealism  beneath  the  vulgar 
nonchalance  and  coxcombry  of  the  man  of  fashion. 

If  this  tendency  of  his  time  had  some  influence  in  making 
Goathe  find  pleasure  in  tangible  power  and  decided  relations 
with  society,  there  were  other  causes  which  worked  deeper. 
The  growth  of  genius  in  its  relations  to  men  around  must 
always  be  attended  with  daily  pain.  The  enchanted  eye 
turns  from  the  far-off  star  it  has  detected  to  the  short-sighted 
bystander,  and  the  seer  is  mocked  for  pretending  to  see  what 
others  cannot.  The  large  and  generalizing  mind  infers  the 
whole  from  a  single  circumstance,  and  is  reproved  by  all 

*  Except  in  "  La  belle  France." 


28  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

around  for  its  presumptuous  judgment.  Its  Ithuriel  temper 
pierces  shams,  creeds,  covenants,  and  chases  the  phantoms 
which  others  embrace,  till  the  lovers  of  the  false  Florimels 
hurl  the  true  knight  to  the  ground.  Little  men  are  indignant 
that  Hercules,  yet  an  infant,  declares  he  has  strangled  the 
serpent ;  they  demand  a  proof;  they  send  him  out  into  scenes 
of  labor  to  bring  thence  the  voucher  that  his  father  is  a  god. 
What  the  ancients  meant  to  express  by  Apollo's  continual 
disappointment  in  his  loves,  is  felt  daily  in  the  youth  of 
genius.  The  sympathy  he  seeks  flies  his  touch,  the  ob 
jects  of  his  affection  sneer  at  his  sublime  credulity,  his  self- 
reliance  is  arrogance,  his  far  sight  infatuation,  and  his  ready 
detection  of  fallacy  fickleness  and  inconsistency.  Such  is  the 
youth  of  genius,  before  the  soul  has  given  that  sign  of  itself 
which  an  unbelieving  generation  cannot  controvert.  Even 
then  he  is  little  benefited  by  the  transformation  of  the  mock 
ers  into  worshippers.  For  the  soul  seeks  not  adorers,  but 
peers ;  not  blind  worship,  but  intelligent  sympathy.  The  best 
consolation  even  then  is  that  which  Goethe  puts  into  the  mouth 
of  Tasso :  "  To  me  gave  a  God  to  tell  what  I  suffer."  In 
"  Tasso  "  Goethe  has  described  the  position  of  the  poetical  mind 
in  its  prose  relations  with  equal  depth  and  fulness.  We  see 
what  he  felt  must  be  the  result  of  entire  abandonment  to  the 
highest  nature.  We  see  why  he  valued  himself  on  being 
able  to  understand  the  Alphonsos,  and  meet  as  an  equal  the 
Antonios  of  every-day  life. 

But,  you  say,  there  is  no  likeness  between  Goethe  and 
Tasso.  Never  believe  it ;  such  pictures  are  not  painted  from 
observation  merely.  That  deep  coloring  which  fills  them 
with  light  and  life  is  given  by  dipping  the  brush  in  one's  own 
life-blood.  Goethe  had  not  from  nature  that  character  of 
self-reliance  and  self-control  in  which  he  so  long  appeared  to 
the  world.  It  was  wholly  acquired,  and  so  highly  valued  be 
cause  he  was  conscious  of  the  opposite  tendency.  He  was  by 
nature  as  impetuous,  though  not  as  tender,  as  Tasso,  and  the 


GCETHE.  29 

disadvantage  at  which  this  constantly  placed  him  was  keenly- 
felt  by  a  mind  made  to  appreciate  the  subtlest  harmonies  in 
all  relations.  Therefore  was  it  that  when  he  at  last  cast 
anchor,  he  was  so  reluctant  again  to  trust  himself  to  wave 
and  breeze. 

I  have  before  spoken  of  the  antagonistic  influences  under 
which  he  was  educated.  He  was  driven  from  the  severity  of 
study  into  the  world,  and  then  again  drawn  back,  many  times 
in  the  course  of  his  crowded  youth.  Both  the  world  and  the 
study  he  used  with  unceasing  ardor,  but  not  with  the  sweet 
ness  of  a  peaceful  hope.  Most  of  the  traits  which  are  con 
sidered  to  mark  his  character  at  a  later  period  were  wanting 
to  him  in  youth.  He  was  very  social,  and  continually  per 
turbed  by  his  social  sympathies.  He  was  deficient  both  in 
outward  self-possession  and  mental  self-trust.  "  I  was  always," 
he  says,  "  either  too  volatile  or  too  infatuated,  so  that  those 
who  looked  kindly  on  me  did  by  no  means  always  honor  me 
with  their  esteem."  He  wrote  much  and  with  great  freedom. 
The  pen  came  naturally  to  his  hand,  but  he  had  no  confi 
dence  in  the  merit  of  what  he  wrote,  and  much  inferior  per 
sons  to  Merck  and  Herder  might  have  induced  him  to  throw 
aside  as  worthless  what  it  had  given  him  sincere  pleasure  to 
compose.  It  was  hard  for  him  to  isolate  himself,  to  console 
himself,  and,  though  his  mind  was  always  busy  with  important 
thoughts,  they  did  not  free  him  from  the  pressure  of  other 
minds.  His  youth  was  as  sympathetic  and  impetuous  as  any 
on  record. 

The  effect  of  all  this  outward  pressure  on  the  poet  is 
recorded  in  Werther  —  a  production  that  he  afterwards  under 
valued,  and  to  which  he  even  felt  positive  aversion.  It  was 
natural  that  this  should  be.  In  the  calm  air  of  the  cultivated 
plain  he  attained,  the  remembrance  of  the  miasma  of  senti 
mentality  was  odious  to  him.  Yet  sentimentality  is  but  senti 
ment  diseased,  which  to  be  cured  must  be  patiently  observed 
by  the  wise  physician ;  so  are  the  morbid  desire  and  despair 
3* 


30  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

of  Werther,  the  sickness  of  a  soul  aspiring  to  a  purer,  freer 
state,  but  mistaking  the  way. 

The  best  or  the  worst  occasion  in  man's  life  is  precisely  that 
misused  in  Werther,  when  he  longs  for  more  love,  more  free 
dom,  and  a  larger  development  of  genius  than  the  limitations 
of  this  terrene  sphere  permit.  Sad  is  it  indeed  if,  persisting  to 
grasp  too  much  at  once,  he  lose  all,  as  Werther  did.  He  must 
accept  limitation,  must  consent  to  do  his  work  in  time,  must 
let  his  affections  be  baffled  by  the  barriers  of  convention. 
Tantalus-like,  he  makes  this  world  a  Tartarus,  or,  like  Hercu 
les,  rises  in  fires  to  heaven,  according  as  he  knows  how  to 
interpret  his  lot.  But  he  must  only  use,  not  adopt  it.  The 
boundaries  of  the  man  must  never  be  confounded  with  the 
destiny  of  the  soul.  If  he  does  not  decline  his  destiny,  as 
Werther  did,  it  is  his  honor  to  have  felt  its  unfitness  for  his 
eternal  scope.  He  was  born  for  wings  ;  he  is  held  to  walk  in 
leading-strings ;  nothing  lower  than  faith  must  make  him  re 
signed,  and  only  in  hope  should  he  find  content  —  a  hope  not 
of  some  slight  improvement  in  his  own  condition  or  that  of 
other  men,  but  a  hope  justified  by  the  divine  justice,  which  is 
bound  in  due  time  to  satisfy  every  want  of  his  nature. 

Schiller's  great  command  is,  "  Keep  true  to  the  dream  of  thy 
youth."  The  great  problem  is  how  to  make  the  dream  real, 
through  the  exercise  of  the  waking  will. 

This  was  not  exactly  the  problem  Goethe  tried  to  solve.  To 
do  somewhat,  became  too  important,  as  is  indicated  both  by 
the  second  motto  to  this  essay,  and  by  his  maxim,  "  It  is  not 
the  knowledge  of  what  might  be,  but  what  is,  that  forms  us." 

Werther,  like  his  early  essays  now  republished  from  the 
Frankfort  Journal,  is  characterized  by  a  fervid  eloquence  of 
Italian  glow,  which  betrays  a  part  of  his  character  almost  lost 
sight  of  in  the  quiet  transparency  of  his  later  productions, 
and  may  give  us  some  idea  of  the  mental  conflicts  through 
which  he  passed  to  manhood. 

The  acting  out  the  mystery  into  life,  the  calmness  of  sur- 


GCETHE.  31 

vey,  and  the  passion ateness  of  feeling,  above  all  the  ironical 
baffling  at  the  end,  and  want  of  point  to  a  tale  got  up  with 
such  an  eye  to  effect  as  he  goes  along,  mark  well  the  man  that 
was  to  be.  Even  so  did  he  demand  in  Werther ;  even  so  res 
olutely  open  the  door  in  the  first  part  of  Faust ;  even  so  seem 
to  play  with  himself  and  his  contemporaries  in  the  second 
part  of  Faust  and  Wilhelm  Meister. 

Yet  was  he  deeply  earnest  in  his  play,  not  for  men,  but  for 
himself.  To  himself  as  a  part  of  nature  it  was  important  to 
grow,  to  lift  his  head  to  the  light.  In  nature  he  had  all  con 
fidence ;  for  man,  as  a  part  of  nature,  infinite  hope;  but  in 
him  as  an  individual  will,  seemingly,  not  much  trust  at  the 
earliest  age. 

The  history  of  his  intimacies  marks  his  course ;  they  were  en 
tered  into  with  passionate  eagerness,  but  always  ended  in  an  ob 
servation  of  the  intellect,  and  he  left  them  on  his  road,  as  the 
snake  leaves  his  skin.  The  first  man  he  met  of  sufficient 
force  to  command  a  large  share  of  his  attention  was  Herder, 
and  the  benefit  of  this  intercourse  was  critical,  not  genial. 
Of  the  good  Lavater  he  soon  perceived  the  weakness. 
Merck,  again,  commanded  his  respect ;  but  the  force  of  Merck 
also  was  cold. 

But  in  the  Grand  Duke  of  Weimar  he  seems  to  have  met 
a  character  strong  enough  to  exercise  a  decisive  influence 
upon  his  own.  Gosthe  was  not  so  politic  and  worldly  that  a 
little  man  could  ever  have  become  his  Maecenas.  In  the 
Duchess  Amelia  and  her  son  he  found  that  practical  sagacity, 
large  knowledge  of  things  as  they  are,  active  force,  and  genial 
feeling,  which  he  had  never  before  seen  combined. 

The  wise  mind  of  the  duchess  gave  the  first  impulse  to 
the  noble  course  of  Weimar.  But  that  her  son  should  have 
availed  himself  of  the  foundation  she  laid  is  praise  enough,  in 
a  world  where  there  is  such  a  rebound  from  parental  influ 
ence  that  it  generally  seems  that  the  child  makes  use  of  the 
directions  given  by  the  parent  only  to  avoid  the  prescribed 


82  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

path.  The  duke  availed  himself  of  guidance,  though  with  a 
perfect  independence  in  action.  The  duchess  had  the  unusual 
wisdom  to  know  the  right  time  for  giving  up  the  reins,  and 
thus  maintained  her  authority  as  far  as  the  weight  of  her 
character  was  calculated  to  give  it. 

Of  her  Goethe  was  thinking  when  he  wrote,  "  The  admira 
ble  woman  is  she,  who,  if  the  husband  dies,  can  be  a  father  to 
the  children." 

The  duke  seems  to  have  been  one  of  those  characters 
which  are  best  known  by  the  impression  their  personal  pres 
ence  makes  on  us,  resembling  an  elemental  and  pervasive 
force,  rather  than  wearing  the  features  of  an  individuality. 
Goethe  describes  him  as  " Dtimonische"  that  is,  gifted  with  an 
instinctive,  spontaneous  force,  which  at  once,  without  calcu 
lation  or  foresight,  chooses  the  right  means  to  an  end.  As 
these  beings  do  not  calculate,  so  is  their  influence  incalculable. 
Their  repose  has  as  much  influence  over  other  beings  as  their 
action,  even  as  the  thunder  cloud,  lying  black  and  distant  in 
the  summer  sky,  is  not  less  imposing  than  when  it  bursts  and 
gives  forth  its  quick  lightnings.  Such  men  were  Mirabeau 
and  Swift.  They  had  also  distinct  talents,  but  their  influence 
was  from  a  perception  in  the  minds  of  men  of  this  spontane 
ous  energy  in  their  natures.  Sometimes,  though  rarely,  we 
see  such  a  man  in  an  obscure  position ;  circumstances  have 
not  led  him  to  a  large  sphere ;  he  may  not  have  expressed  in 
words  a  single  thought  worth  recording;  but  by  his  eye  and 
voice  he  rules  all  around  him. 

He  stands  upon  his  feet  with  a  firmness  and  calm  security 
which  make  other  men  seem  to  halt  and  totter  in  their  gait. 
In  his  deep  eye  is  seen  an  infinite  comprehension,  an  infinite 
reserve  of  power.  No  accent  of  his  sonorous  voice  is  lost  on 
any  ear  within  hearing ;  and,  when  he  speaks,  men  hate  or 
fear  perhaps  the  disturbing  power  they  feel,  but  never  dream 
of  disobeying.  But  hear  Goethe  himself. 

"  The  boy  believed  in  nature,  in  the  animate  and  inanimate, 


GCETHE.  33 

the  intelligent  and  unconscious,  to  discover  somewhat  which 
manifested  itself  only  through  contradiction,  and  therefore  could 
not  be  comprehended  by  any  conception,  much  less  defined  by 
a  word.  It  was  not  divine,  for  it  seemed  without  reason  ;  not 
human,  because  without  understanding  ;  not  devilish,  because 
it  worked  to  good ;  not  angelic,  because  it  often  betrayed  a 
petulant  love  of  mischief.  It  was  like  chance,  in  that  it 
proved  no  sequence ;  it  suggested  the  thought  of  Providence, 
because  it  indicated  connection.  To  this  all  our  limitations 
seem  penetrable ;  it  seemed  to  play  at  will  with  all  the  ele 
ments  of  our  being ;  it  compressed  time  and  dilated  space. 
Only  in  the  impossible  did  it  seem  to  delight,  and  to  cast  the 
possible  aside  with  disdain. 

"  This  existence  which  seemed  to  mingle  with  others,  some 
times  to  separate,  sometimes  to  unite,  I  called  the  Damonische, 
after  the  example  of  the  ancients,  and  others  who  have  ob 
served  somewhat  similar."  —  Dichtung  und  Wahrheit. 

"  The  Damonische  is  that  which  cannot  be  explained  by 
reason  or  understanding ;  it  lies  not  in  my  nature,  but  I  am 
subject  to  it. 

"  Napoleon  was  a  being  of  this  class,  and  in  so  high  a  de 
gree  that  scarce  any  one  is  to  be  compared  with  him.  Also 
our  late  grand  duke  was  such  a  nature,  full  of  unlimited 
power  of  action  and  unrest,  so  that  his  own  dominion  was 
too  little  for  him,  and  the  greatest  would  have  been  too  little. 
Demoniac  beings  of  this  sort  the  Greeks  reckoned  among 
their  demigods."  —  Conversations  with  JSckermann* 

This  great  force  of  will,  this  instinctive  directness  of  action, 
gave  the  duke  an  immediate  ascendency  over  Goethe  which 
no  other  person  had  ever  possessed.  It  was  by  no  means 
mere  sycophancy  that  made  him  give  up  the  next  ten  years, 

[*  Eckermann's  Conversations  with  Goethe,  translated  from  the  German 
by  my  sister,  form  one  volume  of  the  "  Specimens  of  Foreign  Literature," 
edited  by  Rev.  George  Ripley,  and  published  in  1839.  This  volume  has 
been  republished  by  James  Munroe  &  Co.,  Boston,  within  a  few  years. —  ED.]' 


34  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

the  prime  of  his  manhood,  to  accompanying  the  grand  duke 
in  his  revels,  or  aiding  him  in  his  schemes  of  practical  utility, 
or  to  contriving  elegant  amusements  for  the  ladies  of  the 
court.  It  was  a  real  admiration  for  the  character  of  the 
genial  man  of  the  world  and  its  environment. 

Whoever  is  turned  from  his  natural  path  may,  if  he  will, 
gain  in  largeness  and  depth  what  he  loses  in  simple  beauty ; 
and  so  it  was  with  Gcethe.  Faust  became  a  wiser  if  not  a 
nobler  being.  Werther,  who  must  die  because  life  was  not 
wide  enough  and  rich  enough  in  love  for  him,  ends  as  the 
Meister  of  the  Wanderjahre,  well  content  to  be  one  never 
inadequate  to  the  occasion,  "  help-full,  comfort-full." 

A  great  change  was,  during  these  years,  perceptible  to  his 
friends  in  the  character  of  Goethe.  From  being  always 
"  either  too  volatile  or  infatuated,"  he  retreated  into  a  self- 
collected  state,  which  seemed  at  first  even  icy  to  those  around 
him.  No  longer  he  darted  about  him  the  lightnings  of  his 
genius,  but  sat  Jove-like  and  calm,  with  the  thunderbolts 
grasped  in  his  hand,  and  the  eagle  gathered  to  his  feet.  His 
freakish  wit  was  subdued  into  a  calm  and  even  cold  irony ; 
his  multiplied  relations  no  longer  permitted  him  to  abandon 
himself  to  any ;  the  minister  and  courtier  could  not  expatiate 
in  the  free  regions  of  invention,  and  bring  upon  paper  the 
signs  of  his  higher  life,  without  subjecting  himself  to  an  arti 
ficial  process  of  isolation.  Obliged  to  economy  of  time  and 
means,  he  made  of  his  intimates  not  objects  of  devout  tender 
ness,  of  disinterested  care,  but  the  crammers  and  feeders  of 
his  intellect.  The  world  was  to  him  an  arena  or  a  studio,  but 
not  a  temple. 

"  Ye  cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon." 

Had  Goethe  entered  upon  practical  life  from  the  dictate  of 
his  spirit,  which  bade  him  not  be  a  mere  author,  but  a  living, 
loving  man,  that  had  all  been  well.  But  he  must  also  be  a 
man  of  the  world,  and  nothing  can  be  more  unfavorable  to 
true  manhood  than  this  ambition.  The  citizen,  the  hero,  the 


GCETHE.  35 

general,  the  poet,  all  these  are  in  true  relations ;  but  what  is 
called  being  a  man  of  the  world  is  to  truckle  to  it,  not  truly 
to  serve  it. 

Thus  fettered  in  false  relations,  detained  from  retirement 
upon  the  centre  of  his  being,  yet  so  relieved  from  the  early 
pressure  of  his  great  thoughts  as  to  pity  more  pious  souls  for 
being  restless  seekers,  no  wonder  that  he  wrote,  — 

"  Es  ist  dafiir  gesorgt  dass  die  Baume  nicht  in  den  Him- 
mel  wachsen." 

"  Care  is  taken  that  the  trees  grow  not  up  into  the  heavens." 
Ay,  Goethe,  but  in  proportion  to  their  force  of  aspiration  is 
their  height. 

Yet  never  let  him  be  confounded  with  those  who  sell  all 
their  birthright.  He  became  blind  to  the  more  generous  vir 
tues,  the  nobler  impulses,  but  ever  in  self-respect  was  busy  to 
develop  his  nature.  He  was  kind,  industrious,  wise,  gentle 
manly,  if  not  manly.  If  his  genius  lost  sight  of  the  highest 
aim,  he  is  the  best  instructor  in  the  use  of  means  ;  ceasing  to 
be  a  prophet  poet,  he  was  still  a  poetic  artist.  From  this 
time  forward  he  seems  a  listener  to  nature,  but  not  him 
self  the  highest  product  of  nature,  —  a  priest  to  the  soul  of 
nature.  His  works  grow  out  of  life,  but  are  not  instinct 
with  the  peculiar  life  of  human  resolve,  as  are  Shakspeare's 
or  Dante's. 

Faust  contains  the  great  idea  of  his  life,  as  indeed  there  is 
but  one  great  poetic  idea  possible  to  man  —  the  progress  of  a 
soul  through  the  various  forms  of  existence. 

All  his  other  works,  whatever  their  miraculous  beauty  of 
execution,  are  mere  chapters  to  this  poem,  illustrative  of  par 
ticular  points.  Faust,  had  it  been  completed  in  the  spirit  in 
which  it  was  begun,  would  have  been  the  Divina  Commedia 
of  its  age. 

But  nothing  can  better  show  the  difference  of  result  between 
a  stern  and  earnest  life,  and  one  of  partial  accommodation, 
than  a  comparison  between  the  Paridiso  and  that  of  the  second 


6b  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

part  of  Faust.  In  both  a  soul,  gradually  educated  and  led 
back  to  God,  is  received  at  last  not  through  merit,  but  grace. 
But  O  the  difference  between  the  grandly  humble  reliance  of 
old  Catholicism,  and  the  loophole  redemption  of  modern 
sagacity !  Dante  was  a  man,  of  vehement  passions,  many 
prejudices,  bitter  as  much  as  sweet.  His  knowledge  was 
scanty,  his  sphere  of  observation  narrow,  the  objects  of  his 
active  life  petty,  compared  with  those  of  Goethe.  But,  con 
stantly  retiring  to  his  deepest  self,  clearsighted  to  the  limita 
tions  of  man,  but  no  less  so  to  the  illimitable  energy  of  the 
soul,  the  sharpest  details  in  his  work  convey  a  largest  sense, 
as  his  strongest  and  steadiest  flights  only  direct  the  eye  to 
heavens  yet  beyond. 

Yet  perhaps  he  had  not  so  hard  a  battle  to  wage,  as  this 
other  great  poet.  The  fiercest  passions  are  not  so  dangerous 
foes  to  the  soul  as  the  cold  scepticism  of  the  understanding. 
The  Jewish  demon  assailed  the  man  of  Uz  with  physical  ills , 
the  Lucifer  of  the  middle  ages  tempted  his  passions ;  but  the 
Mephistopheles  of  the  eighteenth  century  bade  the  finite 
strive  to  compass  the  infinite,  and  the  intellect  attempt  to 
solve  all  the  problems  of  the  soul. 

This  path  Faust  had  taken :  it  is  that  of  modern  necro 
mancy.  Not  willing  to  grow  into  God  by  the  steady  worship 
of  a  life,  men  would  enforce  his  presence  by  a  spell ;  not  will 
ing  to  learn  his  existence  by  the  slow  processes  of  their  own, 
they  strive  to  bind  it  in  a  word,  that  they  may  wear  it  about 
the  neck  as  a  talisman. 

Faust,  bent  upon  reaching  the  centre  of  the  universe  through 
the  intellect  alone,  naturally,  after  a  length  of  trial,  which  has 
prevented  the  harmonious  unfolding  of  his  nature,  falls  into 
despair.  He  has  striven  for  one  object,  and  that  object  eludes 
him.  Returning  upon  himself,  he  finds  large  tracts  of  his 
nature  lying  waste  and  cheerless.  He  is  too  noble  for  apathy, 
too  wise  for  vulgar  content  with  the  animal  enjoyments  of 
life.  Yet  the  thirst  he  has  been  so  many  years  increasing  is 


GCETHE.  37 

not  to  be  borne.  Give  me,  he  cries,  but  a  drop  of  water  to 
cool  my  burning  tongue.  Yet,  in  casting  himself  with  a  wild 
recklessness  upon  the  impulses  of  his  nature  yet  untried,  there 
is  a  disbelief  that  any  thing  short  of  the  All  can  satisfy  the 
immortal  spirit.  His  first  attempt  was  noble,  though  mis 
taken,  and  under  the  saving  influence  of  it,  he  makes  the 
compact,  whose  condition  cheats  the  fiend  at  last. 

Kannst  du  mich  schmeichelnd  je  belugen 
Dass  ich  mir  selbst  gefallen  mag, 
Kannst  du  mich  mit  Genuss  betrugen  : 
Das  sey  fur  mich  der  letzte  Tag. 

Werd  ich  zum  Augenblicke  sagen : 
Verweile  doch  !  du  bist  so  schon  ! 
Dann  magst  du  mich  in  Fesseln  schlagen, 
Dann  will  ich  gern  zu  Grunde  gehen. 

Canst  thou  by  falsehood  or  by  flattery 
Make  me  one  moment  with  myself  at  peace, 
Cheat  me  into  tranquillity  ?     Come  then 
And  welcome,  life's  last  day. 
Make  me  but  to  the  moment  say, 
O  fly  not  yet,  thou  art  so  fair, 
Then  let  me  perish,  &c. 

But  this  condition  is  never  fulfilled.  Faust  cannot  be  con 
tent  with  sensuality,  with  the  charlatanry  of  ambition,  nor 
with  riches.  His  heart  never  becomes  callous,  nor  his  moral 
and  intellectual  perceptions  obtuse.  He  is  saved  at  last. 

With  the  progress  of  an  individual  soul  is  shadowed  forth 
that  of  the  soul  of  the  age;  beginning  in  intellectual  scepticism; 
sinking  into  license;  cheating  itself  with  dreams  of  perfect 
bliss,  to  be  at  once  attained  by  means  no  surer  than  a  spurious 
paper  currency ;  longing  itself  back  from  conflict  between  the 
4 


03  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

spirit  and  the  flesh,  induced  by  Christianity,  to  the  Greek  era 
with  its  harmonious  development  of  body  and  mind ;  striving 
to  reembody  the  loved  phantom  of  classical  beauty  in  the 
heroism  of  the  middle  age ;  flying  from  the  Byron  despair  of 
those  who  die  because  they  cannot  soar  without  wings,  to 
schemes  however  narrow,  of  practical  utility,  —  redeemed  at 
last  through  mercy  alone. 

The  second  part  of  Faust  is  full  of  meaning,  resplendent 
with  beauty ;  but  it  is  rather  an  appendix  to  the  first  part 
than  a  fulfilment  of  its  promise.  The  world,  remembering 
the  powerful  stamp  of  individual  feeling,  universal  indeed  in 
its  application,  but  individual  in  its  life,  which  had  conquered 
all  its  scruples  in  the  first  part,  was  vexed  to  find,  instead  of 
the  man  Faust,  the  spirit  of  the  age,  —  discontented  with  the 
shadowy  manifestation  of  truths  it  longed  to  embrace,  and, 
above  all,  disappointed  that  the  author  no  longer  met  us  face 
to  face,  or  riveted  the  ear  by  his  deep  tones  of  grief  and 
resolve. 

When  the  world  shall  have  got  rid  of  the  still  overpower 
ing  influence  of  the  first  part,  it  will  be  seen  that  the  funda 
mental  idea  is  never  lost  sight  of  in  the  second.  The  change 
is  that  Goethe,  though  the  same  thinker,  is  no  longer  the  same 
person. 

The  continuation  of  Faust  in  the  practical  sense  of  the 
education  of  a  man  is  to  be  found  in  Wilhelm  Meister.  Here 
we  see  the  change  by  strongest  contrast.  The  mainspring  of 
action  is  no  longer  the  impassioned  and  noble  seeker,  but  a 
disciple  of  circumstance,  whose  most  marked  characteristic  is 
a  taste  for  virtue  and  knowledge.  Wilhelm  certainly  prefers 
these  conditions  of  existence  to  their  opposites,  but  there  is 
nothing  so  decided  in  his  character  as  to  prevent  his  turning 
a  clear  eye  on  every  part  of  that  variegated  world- scene 
which  the  writer  wished  to  place  before  us. 

To  see  all  till  he  knows  all  sufficiently  to  put  objects  into 
their  relations,  then  to  concentrate  his  powers  and  use  his 


GCETHE.  39 

knowledge  under  recognized  conditions,  —  such  is  the  progress 
of  man  from  Apprentice  to  Master. 

'Tis  pity  that  the  volumes  of  the  Wanderjahre  have  not 
been  translated  entire,  as  well  as  those  of  the  Lehrjahre, 
for  many,  who  have  read  the  latter  only,  fancy  that  Wilhelm 
becomes  a  master  in  that  work.  Far  from  it ;  he  has  but 
just  become  conscious  of  the  higher  powers  that  have  cease 
lessly  been  weaving  his  fate.  Far  from  being  as  yet  a  Mas 
ter,  he  but  now  begins  to  be  a  Knower.  In  the  Wander 
jahre  we  find  him  gradually  learning  the  duties  of  citizenship, 
and  hardening  into  manhood,  by  applying  what  he  has  learned 
for  himself  to  the  education  of  his  child.  He  converses  on 
equal  terms  with  the  wise  and  beneficent ;  he  is  no  longer 
duped  and  played  with  for  his  good,  but  met  directly  mind  to 
mind. 

Wilhelm  is  a  master  when  he  can  command  his  actions, 
yet  keep  his  mind  always  open  to  new  means  of  knowledge ; 
when  he  has  looked  at  various  ways  of  living,  various  forms 
of  religion  and  of  character,  till  he  has  learned  to  be  tolerant 
of  all,  discerning  of  good  in  all ;  when  the  astronomer  im 
parts  to  his  equal  ear  his  highest  thoughts,  and  the  poor  cot 
tager  seeks  his  aid  as  a  patron  and  counsellor. 

To  be  capable  of  all  duties,  limited  by  none,  with  an  open 
eye,  a  skilful  and  ready  hand,  an  assured  step,  a  mind  deep, 
calm,  foreseeing  without  anxiety,  hopeful  without  the  aid  of 
illusion,  —  such  is  the  ripe  state  of  manhood.  This  attained, 
the  great  soul  should  still  seek  and  labor,  but  strive  and  bat 
tle  never  more. 

The  reason  for  Gosthe's  choosing  so  negative  a  character  as 
Wilhelm,  and  leading  him  through  scenes  of  vulgarity  and 
low  vice,  would  be  obvious  enough  to  a  person  of  any  depth 
of  thought,  even  if  he  himself  had  not  announced  it.  He 
thus  obtained  room  to  paint  life  as  it  really  is,  and  bring  for 
ward  those  slides  in  the  magic  lantern  which  are  always  known 
to  exist,  though  they  may  not  be  spoken  of  to  ears  polite. 


40  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

Wilhelm  cannot  abide  in  tradition,  nor  do  as  his  fathers  did 
before  him,  merely  for  the  sake  of  money  or  a  standing  in 
society.  The  stage,  here  an  emblem  of  the  ideal  life  as  it 
gleams  before  unpractised  eyes,  offers,  he  fancies,  opportunity 
for  a  life  of  thought  as  distinguished  from  one  of  routine. 
Here,  no  longer  the  simple  citizen,  but  Man,  all  Men,  he  will 
rightly  take  upon  himself  the  different  aspects  of  life,  till 
poet-wise,  he  shall  have  learned  them  all. 

No  doubt  the  attraction  of  the  stage  to  young  persons  of  a 
vulgar  character  is  merely  the  brilliancy  of  its  trappings ;  but 
to  Wilhelm,  as  to  Goethe,  it  was  this  poetic  freedom  and  daily 
suggestion  which  seemed  likely  to  offer  such  an  agreeable 
studio  in  the  greenroom. 

But  the  ideal  must  be  rooted  in  the  real,  else  the  poet's  life 
degenerates  into  buffoonery  or  vice.  Wilhelm  finds  the  char 
acters  formed  by  this  would-be  ideal  existence  more  despicable 
than  those  which  grew  up  on  the  track,  dusty  and  bustling 
and  dull  as  it  had  seemed,  of  common  life.  He  is  prepared 
by  disappointment  for  a  higher  ambition. 

In  the  house  of  the  count  he  finds  genuine  elegance,  genu 
ine  sentiment,  but  not  sustained  by  wisdom,  or  a  devotion  to 
important  objects.  This  love,  this  life,  is  also  inadequate. 

Now,  with  Teresa  he  sees  the  blessings  of  domestic  peace. 
He  sees  a  mind  sufficient  for  itself,  finding  employment  and 
education  in  the  perfect  economy  of  a  little  world.  The  les 
son  is  pertinent  to  the  state  of  mind  in  which  his  former  ex 
periences  have  left  him,  as  indeed  our  deepest  lore  is  won 
from  reaction.  But  a  sudden  change  of  scene  introduces  him 
to  the  society  of  the  sage  and  learned  uncle,  the  sage  and  be 
neficent  Natalia.  Here  he  finds  the  same  virtues  as  with 
Teresa,  and  enlightened  by  a  larger  wisdom. 

A  friend  of  mine  says  that  his  ideal  of  a  friend  is  a  worthy 
aunt,  one  who  has  the  tenderness  without  the  blindness  of  a 
mother,  and  takes  the  same  charge  of  the  child's  mind  as  the 
mother  of  its  body.  I  don't  know  but  this  may  have  a  foun- 


GCETHE.  41 

dation  in  truth,  though,  if  so,  auntism,  like  other  grand  profes 
sions,  has  sadly  degenerated.  At  any  rate,  Goethe  seems  to 
be  possessed  with  a  similar  feeling.  The  Count  de  Thorane, 
a  man  of  powerful  character,  who  made  a  deep  impression  on 
his  childhood,  was,  he  says,  "  reverenced  by  me  as  an  uncle." 
And  the  ideal  wise  man  of  this  common  life  epic  stands  be 
fore  us  as  "  The  Uncle." 

After  seeing  the  working  of  just  views  in  the  establishment 
of  the  uncle,  learning  piety  from  the  Confessions  of  a  Beau 
tiful  Soul,  and  religious  beneficence  from  the  beautiful  life  of 
Natalia,  Wilhelm  is  deemed  worthy  of  admission  to  the  soci 
ety  of  the  Illuminati,  that  is,  those  who  have  pierced  the 
secret  of  life,  and  know  what  it  is  to  be  and  to  do. 

Here  he  finds  the  scroll  of  his  life  "drawn  with  large, 
sharp  strokes,"  that  is,  these  truly  wise  read  his  character  for 
him,  and  "  mind  and  destiny  are  but  two  names  for  one  idea." 

He  now  knows  enough  to  enter  on  the  Wanderjahre. 

Gosthe  always  represents  the  highest  principle  in  the  femi 
nine  form.  Woman  is  the  Minerva,  man  the  Mars.  As  in 
the  Faust,  the  purity  of  Gretchen,  resisting  the  demon  always, 
even  after  all  her  faults,  is  announced  to  have  saved  her  soul 
to  heaven ;  and  in  the  second  part  she  appears,  not  only  re 
deemed  herself,  but  by  her  innocence  and  forgiving  tenderness 
hallowed  to  redeem  the  being  who  had  injured  her. 

So  in  the  Meister,  these  women  hover  around  the  narra 
tive,  each  embodying  the  spirit  of  the  scene.  The  frail  Phi- 
lina,  graceful  though  contemptible,  represents  the  degradation 
incident  to  an  attempt  at  leading  an  exclusively  poetic  life. 
Mignon,  gift  divine  as  ever  the  Muse  bestowed  on  the  pas 
sionate  heart  of  man,  with  her  soft,  mysterious  inspiration, 
her  pining  for  perpetual  youth,  represents  the  high  desire  that 
leads  to  this  mistake,  as  Aurelia,  the  desire  for  excitement ; 
Teresa,  practical  wisdom,  gentle  tranquillity,  which  seem  most 
desirable  after  the  Aurelia  glare.  Of  the  beautiful  soul  and 

Natalia   we   have    already   spoken.     The   former   embodies 

4* 


42  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

what  was  suggested  to  Goethe  by  the  most  spiritual  person  he 
knew  in  youth  —  Mademoiselle  von  Klettenberg,  over  whom, 
as  he  said,  in  her  invalid  loneliness  the  Holy  Ghost  brooded 
like  a  dove. 

Entering  on  the  Wanderjahre,  Wilhelm  becomes  acquainted 
with  another  woman,  who  seems  the  complement  of  all  the 
former,  and  represents  the  idea  which  is  to  guide  and  mould 
him  in  the  realization  of  all  the  past  experience. 

This  person,  long  before  we  see  her,  is  announced  in  vari 
ous  ways  as  a  ruling  power.  She  is  the  last  hope  in  cases  of 
difficulty,  and,  though  an  invalid,  and  living  in  absolute  re 
tirement,  is  consulted  by  her  connections  and  acquaintance  as 
an  unerring  judge  in  all  their  affairs. 

All  things  tend  towards  her  as  a  centre ;  she  knows  all, 
governs  all,  but  never  goes  forth  from  herself. 

Wilhelm  at  last  visits  her.  He  finds  her  infirm  in  body, 
but  equal  to  all  she  has  to  do.  Charity  and  counsel  to  men 
who  need  her  are  her  business,  astronomy  her  pleasure. 

After  a  while,  Wilhelm  ascertains  from  the  Astronomer, 
her  companion,  what  he  had  before  suspected,  that  she  really 
belongs  to  the  solar  system,  and  only  appears  on  earth  to  give 
men  a  feeling  of  the  planetary  harmony.  From  her  youth 
up,  says  the  Astronomer,  till  she  knew  me,  though  all  recog 
nized  in  her  an  unfolding  of  the  highest  moral  and  intellectual 
qualities,  she  was  supposed  to  be  sick  at  her  times  of  clear 
vision.  When  her  thoughts  were  not  in  the  heavens,  she 
returned  and  acted  in  obedience  to  them  on  earth ;  she  was 
then  said  to  be  well. 

When  the  Astronomer  had  observed  her  long  enough,  he 
confirmed  her  inward  consciousness  of  a  separate  existence 
and  peculiar  union  with  the  heavenly  bodies. 

Her  picture  is  painted  with  many  delicate  traits,  and  a  grad 
ual  preparation  leads  the  reader  to  acknowledge  the  truth  ;  but, 
even  in  the  slight  indication  here  given,  who  does  not  recognize 
thee,  divine  Philosophy,  sure  as  the  planetary  orbits,  and 


GCETHB.  43 

inexhaustible  as  the  fountain  of  light,  crowning  the  faithful 
Seeker  at  last  with  the  privilege  to  possess  his  own  soul. 

In  all  that  is  said  of  Macaria,*  we  recognize  that  no  thought 
is  too  religious  for  the  mind  of  Goethe.  It  was  indeed  so ; 
you  can  deny  him  nothing,  but  only  feel  that  his  works  are 
not  instinct  and  glowing  with  the  central  fire,  and,  after  catch 
ing  a  glimpse  of  the  highest  truth,  are  forced  again  to  find 
him  too  much  afraid  of  losing  sight  of  the  limitations  of  nature 
to  overflow  you  or  himself  with  the  creative  spirit. 

"While  the  apparition  of  the  celestial  Macaria  seems  to  an 
nounce  the  ultimate  destiny  of  the  soul  of  man,  the  practical 
application  of  all  Wilhelm  has  thus  painfully  acquired  is  not 
of  pure  Delphian  strain.  Goethe  draws,  as  he  passes,  a  dart 
from  the  quiver  of  Phoebus,  but  ends  as  JEsculapius  or  Mer 
cury.  Wilhelm,  at  the  school  of  the  Three  Reverences,  thinks 
out  what  can  be  done  for  man  in  his  temporal  relations.  He 
learns  to  practise  moderation,  and  even  painful  renunciation. 
The  book  ends,  simply  indicating  what  the  course  of  his  life 
will  be,  by  making  him  perform  an  act  of  kindness,  with  good 
judgment  and  at  the  right  moment. 

Surely  the  simple  soberness  of  Goethe  should  please  at  least 
those  who  style  themselves,  preeminently,  people  of  common 
sense. 

The  following  remarks  are  by  the  celebrated  Rahel  von" 
Ense,  whose  discernment  as  to  his  works  was  highly  prized 
by  Goethe. 

"  Don  Quixote  and  Wilhelm  Meister  / 

"  Embrace  one  another,  Cervantes  and  Goethe ! 

"  Both,  using  their  own  clear  eyes,  vindicated  human  na 
ture.  They  saw  the  champions  through  their  errors  and 
follies,  looking  down  into  the  deepest  soul,  seeing  there  the 

*  The  name  of  Macaria  is  one  of  noblest  association.  It  is  that  of  the 
daughter  of  Hercules,  who  devoted  herself  a  voluntary  sacrifice  for  her 
country.  She  was  adored  by  the  Greeks  as  the  true  Felicity. 


44  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

true  form.  Respectable  people  call  the  Don  as  well  as 
Meister  a  fool,  wandering  hither  and  thither,  transacting 
no  business  of  real  life,  bringing  nothing  to  pass,  scarce  even 
knowing  what  he  ought  to  think  on  any  subject,  very  unfit  for 
the  hero  of  a  romance.  Yet  has  our  sage  known  how  to  paint 
the  good  and  honest  mind  in  perpetual  toil  and  conflict  with 
the  world,  as  it  is  embodied ;  never  sharing  one  moment  the 
impure  confusion ;  always  striving  to  find  fault  with  and  im 
prove  itself,  always  so  innocent  as  to  see  others  far  better 
than  they  are,  and  generally  preferring  them  to  itself,  learning 
from  all,  indulging  all  except  the  manifestly  base ;  the  more 
you  understand,  the  more  you  respect  and  love  this  character. 
Cervantes  has  painted  the  knight,  Gosthe  the  culture  of  the 
entire  man,  —  both  their  own  time." 

But  those  who  demand  from  him  a  life-long  continuance  of 
the  early  ardor  of  Faust,  who  wish  to  see,  throughout  his 
works,  not  only  such  manifold  beauty  and  subtle  wisdom,  but 
the  clear  assurance  of  divinity,  the  pure  white  light  of  Maca- 
ria,  wish  that  he  had  not  so  variously  unfolded  his  nature,  and 
concentred  it  more.  They  would  see  him  slaying  the  serpent 
with  the  divine  wrath  of  Apollo,  rather  than  taming  it  to  his 
service,  like  ^Esculapius.  They  wish  that  he  had  never  gone 
to  Weimar,  had  never  become  a  universal  connoisseur  and 
dilettante  in  science,  and  courtier  as  "  graceful  as  a  born  noble 
man,"  but  had  endured  the  burden  of  life  with  the  suffering 
crowd,  and  deepened  his  nature  in  loneliness  and  privation, 
till  Faust  had  conquered,  rather  than  cheated  the  devil,  and 
the  music  of  heavenly  faith  superseded  the  grave  and  mild 
eloquence  of  human  wisdom. 

The  expansive  genius  which  moved  so  gracefully  in  its  self 
imposed  fetters,  is  constantly  surprising  us  by  its  content  with 
a  choice  low,  in  so  far  as  it  was  not  the  highest  of  which  the 
mind  was  capable.  The  secret  may  be  found  in  the  second 
motto  of  this  slight  essay. 


GCETHE.  45 

"  He  who  would  do  great  things  must  quickly  draw  together 
his  forces.  The  master  can  only  show  himself  such  through 
limitation,  and  the  law  alone  can  give  us  freedom." 

But  there  is  a  higher  spiritual  law  always  ready  to  super 
sede  the  temporal  laws  at  the  call  of  the  human  soul.  The 
soul  that  is  too  content  with  usual  limitations  will  never  call 
forth  this  unusual  manifestation. 

If  there  be  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,  which  must  be  taken 
at  the  right  moment  to  lead  on  to  fortune,  it  is  the  same  with 
inward  as  with  outward  life.  He  who,  in  the  crisis  hour  of 
youth,  has  stopped  short  of  himself,  is  not  likely  to  find  again 
what  he  has  missed  in  one  life,  for  there  are  a  great  number 
of  blanks  to  a  prize  in  each  lottery. 

But  the  pang  we  feel  that  "  those  who  are  so  much  are  not 
more,"  seems  to  promise  new  spheres,  new  ages,  new  crises 
to  enable  these  beings  to  complete  their  circle. 

Perhaps  Goethe  is  even  now  sensible  that  he  should  not 
have  stopped  at  Weimar  as  his  home,  but  made  it  one  station 
on  the  way  to  Paradise  ;  not  stopped  at  humanity,  but  regarded 
it  as  symbolical  of  the  divine,  and  given  to  others  to  feel  more 
distinctly  the  centre  of  the  universe,  as  well  as  the  harmony 
in  its  parts.  It  is  great  to  be  an  Artist,  a  Master,  greater 
still  to  be  a  Seeker  till  the  Man  has  found  all  himself. 

What  Goethe  meant  by  self-collection  was  a  collection  of 
means  for  work,  rather  than  to  divine  the  deepest  truths  of 
being.  Thus  are  these  truths  always  indicated,  never  de 
clared  ;  and  the  religious  hope  awakened  by  his  subtle  dis 
cernment  of  the  workings  of  nature  never  gratified,  except 
through  the  intellect. 

He  whose  prayer  is  only  work  will  not  leave  his  treasure 
in  the  secret  shrine. 

One  is  ashamed  when  finding  any  fault  with  one  like 
Goethe,  who  is  so  great.  It  seems  the  only  criticism  should 
be  to  do  all  he  omitted  to  do,  and  that  none  who  cannot  is 
entitled  to  say  a  word.  Let  that  one  speak  who  was  all  Grethe 


46  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

was  not,  —  noble,  true,  virtuous,  but  neither  wise  nor  subtle  in 
his  generation,  a  divine  ministrant,  a  baffled  man,  ruled  and 
imposed  on  by  the  pygmies  whom  he  spurned,  an  heroic  artist, 
a  democrat  to  the  tune  of  Burns : 

"  The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp ; 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that." 

Hear  Beethoven  speak  of  Go3the  on  an  occasion  which 
brought  out  the  two  characters  in  strong  contrast. 

Extract  from  a  letter  of  Beethoven  to  Bettina  Brentano, 
Toplitz,  1812. 

"  Kings  and  princes  can  indeed  make  professors  and  privy 
councillors,  and  hang  upon  them  titles ;  but  great  men  they 
cannot  make ;  souls  that  rise  above  the  mud  of  the  world, 
these  they  must  let  be  made  by  other  means  than  theirs,  and 
should  therefore  show  them  respect.  When  two  such  as  I 
and  Goethe  come  together,  then  must  great  lords  observe  what 
is  esteemed  great  by  one  of  us.  Coming  home  yesterday  we 
met  the  whole  imperial  family.  We  saw  them  coming,  and 
Goethe  left  me  and  insisted  on  standing  one  side  ;  let  me  say 
what  I  would,  I  could  not  make  him  come  on  one  step.  I 
pressed  my  hat  upon  my  head,  buttoned  my  surtout,  and 
passed  on  through  the  thickest  crowd.  Princes  and  parasites 
made  way ;  the  Archduke  Rudolph  took  off  his  hat ;  the 
empress  greeted  me  first.  Their  highnesses  KNOW  ME.  I 
was  well  amused  to  see  the  crowd  pass  by  Goethe.  At  the 
side  stood  he,  hat  in  hand,  low  bowed  in  reverence  till  all 
had  gone  by.  Then  I  scolded  him  well ;  I  gave  no  pardon, 
but  reproached  him  with  all  his  sins,  most  of  all  those  to 
wards  you,  dearest  Bettina;  we  had  just  been  talking  of 
you." 

If  Beethoven  appears,  in  this  scene,  somewhat  arrogant  and 
bearish,  yet  how  noble  his  extreme  compared  with  the  oppo 
site  !  Go3the's  friendship  with  the  grand  duke  we  respect, 
for  Karl  August  was  a  strong  man.  But  we  regret  to  see  at 


GCETHE.  47 

the  command  of  any  and  all  members  of  the  ducal  family, 
and  their  connections,  who  had  nothing  but  rank  to  recom 
mend  them,  his  time  and  thoughts,  of  which  he  was  so  chary 
to  private  friends.  Beethoven  could  not  endure  to  teach  the 
Archduke  Rudolph,  who  had  the  soul  duly  to  revere  his 
genius,  because  he  felt  it  to  be  "  hofdienst,"  court  service.  He 
received  with  perfect  nonchalance  the  homage  of  the  sover 
eigns  of  Europe.  Only  the  Empress  of  Russia  and  the  Arch 
duke  Karl,  whom  he  esteemed  as  individuals,  had  power  to 
gratify  him  by  their  attentions.  Compare  with  Goethe's  ob 
sequious  pleasure  at  being  able  gracefully  to  compliment  such 
high  personages,  Beethoven's  conduct  with  regard  to  the  famous 
Heroic  Symphony.  This  was  composed  at  the  suggestion  of 
Bernadotte,  while  Napoleon  was  still  in  his  first  glory.  He 
was  then  the  hero  of  Beethoven's  imagination,  who  hoped 
from  him  the  liberation  of  Europe.  With  delight  the  great 
artist  expressed  in  his  eternal  harmonies  the  progress  of  the 
Hero's  soul.  The  symphony  was  finished,  and  even  dedicated 
to  Bonaparte,  when  the  news  came  of  his  declaring  himself 
Emperor  of  the  French.  The  first  act  of  the  indignant  artist 
was  to  tear  off  his  dedication  and  trample  it  under  foot ;  nor 
could  he  endure  again  even  the  mention  of  Napoleon  until 
the  time  of  his  fall. 

Admit  that  Goethe  had  a  natural  taste  for  the  trappings  of 
rank  and  wealth,  from  which  the  musician  was  quite  free,  yet 
we  cannot  doubt  that  both  saw  through  these  externals  to 
man  as  a  nature ;  there  can  be  no  doubt  on  whose  side  was 
the  simple  greatness,  the  noble  truth.  We  pardon  thee, 
Goethe, —  but  thee,  Beethoven,  we  revere,  for  thou  hast 
maintained  the  worship  of  the  Manly,  the  Permanent,  the 
True ! 

The  clear  perception  which  was  in  Goethe's  better  nature 
of  the  beauty  of  that  steadfastness,  of  that  singleness  and 
simple  melody  of  soul,  which  he  too  much  sacrificed  to  be 
come  "  the  many-sided  One,"  is  shown  most  distinctly  in  his 


48  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

two  surpassingly  beautiful  works,  The  Elective  Affinities  and 
Iphigenia. 

Not  Werther,  not  the  Nouvelle  Heloise,  have  been  assailed 
with  such  a  storm  of  indignation  as  the  first-named  of  these 
works,  on  the  score  of  gross  immorality. 

The  reason  probably  is  the  subject ;  any  discussion  of  the 
validity  of  the  marriage  vow  making  society  tremble  to  its 
foundation ;  and,  secondly,  the  cold  manner  in  which  it  is 
done.  All  that  is  in  the  book  would  be  bearable  to  most 
minds  if  the  writer  had  had  less  the  air  of  a  spectator,  and 
had  larded  his  work  here  and  there  with  ejaculations  of  hor 
ror  and  surprise. 

These  declarations  of  sentiment  on  the  part  of  the  author 
seem  to  be  required  by  the  majority  of  readers,  in  order  to 
an  interpretation  of  his  purpose,  as  sixthly,  seventhly,  and 
eighthly  were,  in  an  old-fashioned  sermon,  to  rouse  the  audi 
ence  to  a  perception  of  the  method  made  use  of  by  the 
preacher. 

But  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  those  who  need  not 
such  helps  to  their  discriminating  faculties,  but  read  a  work 
so  thoroughly  as  to  apprehend  its  whole  scope  and  tendency, 
rather  than  hear  what  the  author  says  it  means,  will  regard 
the  Elective  Affinities  as  a  work  especially  what  is  called 
moral  in  its  outward  effect,  and  religious  even  to  piety  in  its 
spirit.  The  mental  aberrations  of  the  consorts  from  their 
plighted  faith,  though  in  the  one  case  never  indulged,  and 
though  in  the  other  no  veil  of  sophistry  is  cast  over  the  weak 
ness  of  passion,  but  all  that  is  felt  expressed  with  the  open 
ness  of  one  who  desires  to  legitimate  what  he  feels,  are  pun 
ished  by  terrible  griefs  and  a  fatal  catastrophe.  Ottilia,  that 
being  of  exquisite  purity,  with  intellect  and  character  so  har 
monized  in  feminine  beauty,  as  they  never  before  were  found 
in  any  portrait  of  woman  painted  by  the  hand  of  man,  per 
ishes,  on  finding  she  has  been  breathed  on  by  unhallowed 
passion,  and  led  to  err  even  by  her  ignorant  wishes  against 


GGBTHE.  49 

what  is  held  sacred.  The  only  personage  whom  we  do  not 
pity  is  Edward,  for  he  is  the  only  one  who  stifles  the  voice  of 
conscience. 

There  is  indeed  a  sadness,  as  of  an  irresistible  fatality, 
brooding  over  the  whole.  It  seems  as  if  only  a  ray  of  an 
gelic  truth  could  have  enabled  these  men  to  walk  wisely  in 
this  twilight,  at  first  so  soft  and  alluring,  then  deepening  into 
blind  horror. 

But  if  no  such  ray  came  to  prevent  their  earthly  errors,  it 
seems  to  point  heavenward  in  the  saintly  sweetness  of  Ottilia. 
Her  nature,  too  fair  for  vice,  too  finely  wrought  even  for 
error,  comes  lonely,  intense,  and  pale,  like  the  evening  star  on 
the  cold,  wintry  night.  It  tells  of  other  worlds,  where  the 
meaning  of  such  strange  passages  as  this  must  be  read  to 
those  faithful  and  pure  like  her,  victims  perishing  in  the  green 
garlands  of  a  spotless  youth  to  atone  for  the  unworthiness  of 
others. 

An  unspeakable  pathos  is  felt  from  the  minutest  trait  of 
this  character,  and  deepens  with  every  new  study  of  it.  Not 
even  in  Shakspeare  have  I  so  felt  the  organizing  power  of 
genius.  Through  dead  words  I  find  the  least  gestures  of  this 
person,  stamping  themselves  on  my  memory,  betraying  to  the 
heart  the  secret  of  her  life,  which  she  herself,  like  all  these 
divine  beings,  knew  not.  I  feel  myself  familiarized  with  all 
beings  of  her  order.  I  see  not  only  what  she  was,  but  what  she 
might  have  been,  and  live  with  her  in  yet  untrodden  realms. 

Here  is  the  glorious  privilege  of  a  form  known  only  in  the 
world  of  genius.  There  is  on  it  no  stain  of  usage  or  calcula 
tion  to  dull  our  sense  of  its  immeasurable  life.  What  in  our 
daily  walk,  mid  common  faces  and  common  places,  fleets 
across  us  at  moments  from  glances  of  the  eye,  or  tones  of  the 
voice,  is  felt  from  the  whole  being  of  one  of  these  children 
of  genius. 

This  precious  gem  is  set  in  a  ring  complete  in  its  enamel. 
I  cannot  hope  to  express  my  sense  of  the  beauty  of  this  book 
5 


50  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

as  a  work  of  art.  I  would  not  attempt  it  if  I  had  elsewhere 
met  any  testimony  to  the  same.  The  perfect  picture,  always  be 
fore  the  mind,  of  the  chateau,  the  moss  hut,  the  park,  the  gar 
den,  the  lake,  with  its  boat  and  the  landing  beneath  the  platan 
trees ;  the  gradual  manner  in  which  both  localities  and  per 
sons  grow  upon  us,  more  living  than  life,  inasmuch  as  we  are, 
unconsciously,  kept  at  our  best  temperature  by  the  atmos 
phere  of  genius,  and  thereby  more  delicate  in  our  perceptions 
than  amid  our  customary  fogs ;  the  gentle  unfolding  of  the 
central  thought,  as  a  flower  in  the  morning  sun  ;  then  the 
conclusion,  rising  like  a  cloud,  first  soft  and  white,  but  dark 
ening  as  it  comes,  till  with  a  sudden  wind  it  bursts  above  our 
heads ;  the  ease  with  which  we  every  where  find  points  of 
view  all  different,  yet  all  bearing  on  the  same  circle,  for, 
though  we  feel  every  hour  new  worlds,  still  before  our  eye 
lie  the  same  objects,  new,  yet  the  same,  unchangeable,  yet 
always  changing  their  aspects  as  we  proceed,  till  at  last  we 
find  we  ourselves  have  traversed  the  circle,  and  know  all  we 
overlooked  at  first,  —  these  things  are  worthy  of  our  highest 
admiration. 

For  myself,  I  never  felt  so  completely  that  very  thing 
which  genius  should  always  make  us  feel  —  that  I  was  in  its 
circle,  and  could  not  get  out  till  its  spell  was  done,  and  its 
last  spirit  permitted  to  depart.  I  was  not  carried  away,  in 
structed,  delighted  more  than  by  other  works,  but  I  was  there, 
living  there,  whether  as  the  platan  tree,  or  the  architect,  or 
any  other  observing  part  of  the  scene.  The  personages  live 
too  intensely  to  let  us  live  in  them ;  they  draw  around  them 
selves  circles  within  the  circle ;  we  can  only  see  them  close, 
not  be  themselves. 

Others,  it  would  seem,  on  closing  the  book,  exclaim,  "  What 
an  immoral  book  !  "  I  well  remember  my  own  thought,  "  It 
is  a  work  of  art !  "  At  last  I  understood  that  wTorld  within  a 
world,  that  ripest  fruit  of  human  nature,  which  is  called  art. 
With  each  perusal  of  the  book  my  surprise  and  delight  at  this 


GCETHE.  51 

wonderful  fulfilment  of  design  grew.  I  understood  why 
Goethe  was  well  content  to  be  called  Artist,  and  his  works, 
works  of  Art,  rather  than  revelations.  At  this  moment,  re 
membering  what  I  then  felt,  I  am  inclined  to  class  all  my 
negations  just  written  on  this  paper  as  stuff,  and  to  look  upon 
myself,  for  thinking  them,  with  as  much  contempt  as  Mr.  Car- 
lyle,  or  Mrs.  Austin,  or  Mrs.  Jameson  might  do,  to  say  noth 
ing  of  the  German  Goetheans. 

Yet  that  they  were  not  without  foundation  I  feel  again 
when  I  turn  to  the  Iphigenia  —  a  work  beyond  the  possibility 
of  negation ;  a  work  where  a  religious  meaning  not  only 
pierces  but  enfolds  the  whole ;  a  work  as  admirable  in  art, 
still  higher  in  significance,  more  single  in  expression. 

There  is  an  English  translation  (I  know  not  how  good)  of 
Goethe's  Iphigenia.  But  as  it  may  not  be  generally  known,  I 
will  give  a  sketch  of  the  drama.  Iphigenia,  saved,  at  the 
moment  of  the  sacrifice  made  by  Agamemnon  in  behalf  of 
the  Greeks,  by  the  goddess,  and  transferred  to  the  temple  at 
Tauris,  appears  alone  in  the  consecrated  grove.  Many 
years  have  passed  since  she  was  severed  from  the  home  of 
such  a  tragic  fate,  the  palace  of  Mycenae.  Troy  had  fallen, 
Agamemnon  been  murdered,  Orestes  had  grown  up  to  avenge 
his  death.  All  these  events  were  unknown  to  the  exiled 
Iphigenia.  The  priestess  of  Diana  in  a  barbarous  land,  she 
had  passed  the  years  in  the  duties  of  the  sanctuary,  and  in 
acts  of  beneficence.  She  had  acquired  great  power  over  the 
mind  of  Thoas,  king  of  Tauris,  and  used  it  to  protect  stran 
gers,  whom  it  had  previously  been  the  custom  of  the  country 
to  sacrifice  to  the  goddess. 

She  salutes  us  with  a  soliloquy,  of  which  I  give  a  rude 
translation :  — 

Beneath  your  shade,  living  summits 
Of  this  ancient,  holy,  thick-leaved  grove, 
As  in  the  silent  sanctuary  of  the  Goddess, 


52  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

Still  I  walk  with  those  same  shuddering  feelings, 

As  when  I  trod  these  walks  for  the  first  time. 

My  spirit  cannot  accustom  itself  to  these  places ; 

Many  years  now  has  kept  me  here  concealed 

A  higher  will,  to  which  I  am  submissive ; 

Yet  ever  am  I,  as  at  first,  the  stranger  ; 

For  ah  !  the  sea  divides  me  from  my  beloved  ones, 

And  on  the  shore  whole  days  I  stand, 

Seeking  with  my  soul  the  land  of  the  Greeks, 

And  to  my  sighs  brings  the  rushing  wave  only 

Its  hollow  tones  in  answer. 

Woe  to  him  who,  far  from  parents,  and  brothers,  and  sisters, 

Drags  on  a  lonely  life.     Grief  consumes 

The  nearest  happiness  away  from  his  lips ; 

His  thoughts  crowd  downwards  — 

Seeking  the  hall  of  his  fathers,  where  the  Sun 

First  opened  heaven  to  him,  and  kindred-born 

In  their  first  plays  knit  daily  firmer  and  firmer 

The  bond  from  heart  to  heart  —  I  question  not  the  Gods, 

Only  the  lot  of  woman  is  one  of  sorrow ; 

In  the  house  and  in  the  war  man  rules, 

Knows  how  to  help  himself  in  foreign  lands, 

Possessions  gladden  and  victory  crowns  him, 

And  an  honorable  death  stands  ready  to  end  his  days. 

Within  what  narrow  limits  is  bounded  the  luck  of  woman ! 

To  obey  a  rude  husband  even  is  duty  and  comfort ;  how  sad 

When,  instead,  a  hostile  fate  drives  her  out  of  her  sphere ! 

So  holds  me  Thoas,  indeed  a  noble  man,  fast 

In  solemn,  sacred,  but  slavish  bonds. 

O,  with  shame  I  confess  that  with  secret  reluctance 

I  serve  thee,  Goddess,  thee,  my  deliverer. 

My  life  should  freely  have  been  dedicate  to  thee, 
But  I  have  always  been  hoping  in  thee,  O  Diana, 
Who  didst  take  in  thy  soft  arms  me,  the  rejected  daughter 
Of  the  greatest  king  !     Yes,  daughter  of  Zeus, 


GCETHE.  OD 

I  thought  if  thou  gavest  such  anguish  to  him,  the  high  hero, 

The  godlike  Agamemnon  ; 

Since  he  brought  his  dearest,  a  victim,  to  thy  altar, 

That,  when  he  should  return,  crowned  with  glory,  from  Ilium, 

At  the  same  time  thou  would'st  give  to  his  arms  his  other 

treasures, 

His  spouse,  Electra,  and  the  princely  son ; 
Me  also,  thou  would'st  restore  to  mine  own, 
Saving  a  second  time  me,  whom  from  death  thou  didst  save, 
From  this  worse  death,  —  the  life  of  exile  here. 

These  are  the  words  and  thoughts  ;  but  how  give  an  idea  of 
the  sweet  simplicity  of  expression  in  the  original,  where  every 
word  has  the  grace  and  softness  of  a  flower  petal  ? 

She  is  interrupted  by  a  messenger  from  the  king,  who 
prepares  her  for  a  visit  from  himself  of  a  sort  she  has  dreaded. 
Thoas,  who  has  always  loved  her,  now  left  childless  by  the 
calamities  of  war,  can  no  longer  resist  his  desire  to  reanimate 
by  her  presence  his  desert  house.  He  begins  by  urging  her 
to  tell  him  the  story  of  her  race,  which  she  does  in  a  way  that 
makes  us  feel  as  if  that  most  famous  tragedy  had  never  before 
found  a  voice,  so  simple,  so  fresh  in  its  naivete  is  the  recital. 

Thoas  urges  his  suit  undismayed  by  the  fate  that  hangs 
over  the  race  of  Tantalus. 

THOAS. 

Was  it  the  same  Tantalus, 

Whom  Jupiter  called  to  his  council  and  banquets, 
In  whose  talk  so  deeply  experienced,  full  of  various  learning, 
The  Gods  delighted  as  in  the  speech  of  oracles  ? 

IPHIGENIA. 

It  is  the  same,  but  the  Gods  should  not 
Converse  with  men,  as  with  their  equals. 
The  mortal  race  is  much  too  weak 
"Not  to  turn  giddy  on  unaccustomed  heights. 

K   * 


54  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

He  was  not  ignoble,  neither  a  traitor, 

But  for  a  servant  too  great,  and  as  a  companion 

Of  the  great  Thunderer  only  a  man.      So  was 

His  fault  also  that  of  a  man,  its  penalty 

Severe,  and  poets  sing  —  Presumption 

And  faithlessness  cast  him  down  from  the  throne  of  Jove, 

Into  the  anguish  of  ancient  Tartarus ; 

Ah,  and  all  his  race  bore  their  hate. 

THOAS. 
Bore  it  the  blame  of  the  ancestor,  or  its  own  ? 

IPHIGENIA. 

Truly  the  vehement  breast  and  powerful  life  of  the  Titan 
Were  the  assured  inheritance  of  son  and  grandchild  ; 
But  the  Gods  bound  their  brows  with  a  brazen  band, 
Moderation,  counsel,  wisdom,  and  patience 
"Were  hid  from  their  wild,  gloomy  glance, 
Each  desire  grew  to  fury, 
And  limitless  ranged  their  passionate  thoughts. 

Iphigenia  refuses  with  gentle  firmness  to  give  to  gratitude 
what  was  not  due.  Thoas  leaves  her  in  anger,  and,  to  make 
her  feel  it,  orders  that  the  old,  barbarous  custom  be  renewed, 
and  two  strangers  just  arrived  be  immolated  at  Diana's  altar. 

Iphigenia,  though  distressed,  is  not  shaken  by  this  piece  of 
tyranny.  She  trusts  her  heavenly  protectress  will  find  some 
way  for  her  to  save  these  unfortunates  without  violating  her 
truth. 

The  strangers  are  Orestes  and  Pylades,  sent  thither  by  the 
oracle  of  Apollo,  who  bade  them  go  to  Tauris  and  bring 
back  "  The  Sister ; "  thus  shall  the  heaven-ordained  parricide 
of  Orestes  be  expiated,  and  the  Furies  cease  to  pursue  him. 

The  Sister  they  interpret  to  be  Dian,  Apollo's  sister ;  but 
Iphigenia,  sister  to  Orestes,  is  really  meant. 


GCETHE.  55 

The  next  act  contains  scenes  of  most  delicate  workmanship, 
first  between  the  light-hearted  Pylades,  full  of  worldly  re 
source  and  ready  tenderness,  and  the  suffering  Orestes,  of  far 
nobler,  indeed  heroic  nature,  but  less  fit  for  the  day  and  more 
for  the  ages.  In  the  first  scene  the  characters  of  both  are 
brought  out  with  great  skill,  and  the  nature  of  the  bond  between 
"  the  butterfly  and  the  dark  flower,"  distinctly  shown  in  few 
words. 

The  next  scene  is  between  Iphigenia  and  Pylades.  Pyla 
des,  though  he  truly  answers  the  questions  of  the  priestess 
about  the  fate  of  Troy  and  the  house  of  Agamemnon,  does  not 
hesitate  to  conceal  from  her  who  Orestes  really  is,  and  manu 
factures  a  tissue  of  useless  falsehoods  with  the  same  readiness 
that  the  wise  Ulysses  showed  in  exercising  his  ingenuity  on 
similar  occasions. 

It  is  said,  I  know  not  how  truly,  that  the  modern  Greeks 
are  Ulyssean  in  this  respect,  never  telling  straightforward 
truth,  when  deceit  will  answer  the  purpose  ;  and  if  they  tell 
any  truth,  practising  the  economy  of  the  King  of  Ithaca,  in 
always  reserving  a  part  for  their  own  use.  The  character 
which  this  denotes  is  admirably  hit  off  with  few  strokes  in 
Pylades,  the  fair  side  of  whom  Iphigenia  thus  paints  in  a  later 
scene. 

Bless,  ye  Gods,  our  Pylades, 

And  whatever  he  may  undertake ; 

He  is  the  arm  of  the  youth  in  battle, 

The  light-giving  eye  of  the  aged  man  in  the  council. 

For  his  soul  is  still ;  it  preserves 

The  holy  possession  of  Repose  unexhausted, 

And  from  its  depths  still  reaches 

Help  and  advice  to  those  tossed  to  and  fro. 

Iphigenia  leaves  him  in  sudden  agitation,  when  informed 
of  the  death  of  Agamemnon.  Returning,  she  finds  in  his  place 


56  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

Orestes,  whom  she  had  not  before  seen,  and  draws  from  him 
by  her  artless  questions  the  sequel  to  this  terrible  drama 
wrought  by  his  hand.  After  he  has  concluded  his  narrative, 
in  the  deep  tones  of  cold  anguish,  she  cries,  — 

Immortals,  you  who  through  your  bright  days 

Live  in  blis's,  throned  on  clouds  ever  renewed, 

Only  for  this  have  you  all  these  years 

Kept  me  separate  from  men,  and  so  near  yourselves, 

Given  me  the  child-like  employment  to  cherish  the  fires  on 

your  altars, 

That  my  soul  might,  in  like  pious  clearness, 
Be  ever  aspiring  towards  your  abodes, 
That  only  later  and  deeper  I  might  feel 
The  anguish  and  horror  that  have  darkened  my  house. 

O  Stranger, 
Speak  to  me  of  the  unhappy  one,  tell  me  of  Orestes. 

ORESTES. 

O,  might  I  speak  of  his  death  ! 
Vehement  flew  up  from  the  reeking  blood 
His  Mother's  Soul ! 

And  called  to  the  ancient  daughters  of  Night, 
Let  not  the  parricide  escape  ; 
Pursue  that  man  of  crime ;  he  is  yours  ! 
They  obey,  their  hollow  eyes 
Darting  about  with  vulture  eagerness  ; 
They  stir  themselves  in  their  black  dens, 
From  corners  their  companions 
Doubt  and  Remorse  steal  out  to  join  them  : 
Before  them  roll  the  mists  of  Acheron ; 
In  its  cloudy  volumes  rolls 
The  eternal  contemplation  of  the  irrevocable. 
Permitted  now  in  their  love  of  ruin  they  tread 
The  beautiful  fields  of  a  God-planted  earth, 


GCETHB.  57 

From  which  they  had  long  been  banished  by  an  early  curse, 

Their  swift  feet  follow  the  fugitive, 

They  pause  never  except  to  gather  more  power  to  dismay. 

IPHIGENIA. 

Unhappy  man,  thou  art  in  like  manner  tortured, 
And  feelest  truly  what  he,  the  poor  fugitive,  suffers  ! 

ORESTES. 
What  sayest  thou  ?  what  meanest  by  "  like  manner  "  ? 

IPHIGENIA. 

Thee,  too,  the  weight  of  a  fratricide  crushes  to  earth ;  the  tale 
I  had  from  thy  younger  brother. 

ORESTES. 

I  cannot  suffer  that  thou,  great  soul, 
Shouldst  be  deceived  by  a  false  tale ; 
A  web  of  lies  let  stranger  weave  for  stranger 
Subtle  with  many  thoughts,  accustomed  to  craft, 
Guarding  his  feet  against  a  trap. 

But  between  us 
Be  Truth ;  — 

I  am  Orestes,  —  and  this  guilty  head 
Bent  downward  to  the  grave  seeks  death ; 
In  any  shape  were  he  welcome. 
Whoever  thou  art,  I  wish  thou  mightst  be  saved, 
Thou  and  my  friend  ;  for  myself  I  wish  it  not. 
Thou  seem'st  against  thy  will  here  to  remain ; 
Invent  a  way  to  fly  and  leave  me  here. 

Like  all  pure  productions  of  genius,  this  may  be  injured  by 
the  slightest  change,  and  I  dare  not  flatter  myself  that  the 
English  words  give  an  idea  of  the  heroic  dignity  expressed  in 
the  cadence  of  the  original,  by  the  words 


58  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

"  Twischen  uns 
Seg  Wahrheit ! 
Ich  bin  Orest ! " 

where  the  Greek  seems  to  fold  his  robe  around  him  in  the 
full  strength  of  classic  manhood,  prepared  for  worst  and  best, 
not  like  a  cold  Stoic,  but  a  hero,  who  can  feel  all,  know  all, 
and  endure  all.  The  name  of  two  syllables  in  the  German 
is  much  more  forcible  for  the  pause,  than  the  three-syllable 
Orestes. 

"  Between  us 
Be  Truth," 

is  fine  to  my  ear,  on  which  our  word  Truth  also  pauses  with 
a  large  dignity. 

The  scenes  go  on  more  and  more  full  of  breathing  beauty. 
The  lovely  joy  of  Iphigenia,  the  meditative  softness  with 
which  the  religiously  educated  mind  perpetually  draws  the 
inference  from  the  most  agitating  events,  impress  us  more 
and  more.  At  last  the  hour  of  trial  comes.  She  is  to  keep 
off  Thoas  by  a  cunningly  devised  tale,  while  her  brother  and 
Pylades  contrive  their  escape.  Orestes  has  received  to  his 
heart  the  sister  long  lost,  divinely  restored,  and  in  the  em 
brace  the  curse  falls  from  him,  he  is  well,  and  Pylades  more 
than  happy.  The  ship  waits  to  carry  her  to  the  palace  home 
she  is  to  free  from  a  century's  weight  of  pollution;  and 
already  the  blue  heavens  of  her  adored  Greece  gleam  before 
her  fancy. 

But,  O,  the  step  before  all  this  can  be  obtained ;  —  to  de 
ceive  Thoas,  a  savage  and  a  tyrant  indeed,  but  long  her  pro 
tector,  —  in  his  barbarous  fashion,  her  benefactor !  How  can 
she  buy  life,  happiness,  or  even  the  safety  of  those  dear  ones 
at  such  a  price  ? 

"  Woe, 

O  Woe  upon  the  lie !     It  frees  not  the  breast, 
Like  the  true-spoken  word ;  it  comforts  not,  but  tortures 


GCETHE.  59 

Him  who  devised  it,  and  returns, 

An  arrow  once  let  fly,  God-repelled,  back, 

On  the  bosom  of  the  Archer  !  " 

O,  must  I  then  resign  the  silent  hope 
Which  gave  a  beauty  to  my  loneliness  ? 
Must  the  curse  dwell  forever,  and  our  race 
Never  be  raised  to  life  by  a  new  blessing  ? 
All  things  decay,  the  fairest  bliss  is  transient, 
The  powers  most  full  of  life  grow  faint  at  last ; 
And  shall  a  curse  alone  boast  an  incessant  life  ? 

Then  have  I  idly  hoped  that  here  kept  pure, 
So  strangely  severed  from  my  kindred's  lot, 
I  was  designed  to  come  at  the  right  moment, 
And  with  pure  hand  and  heart  to  expiate 
The  many  sins  that  stain  my  native  home. 
To  lie,  to  steal  the  sacred  image  ! 
Olympians,  let  not  these  vulture  talons 
Seize  on  the  tender  breast.     O,  save  me, 
And  save  your  image  in  my  soul ! 

Within  my  ears  resounds  the  ancient  lay,  — 

I  had  forgotten  it,  and  would  so  gladly,  — 

The  lay  of  the  Parcae,  which  they  awful  sung ; 

As  Tantalus  fell  from  his  golden  seat 

They  suffered  with  the  noble  friend.     Wrathful 

Was  their  heart,  and  fearful  was  the  song. 

In  our  childhood  the  nurse  was  wont  to  sing  it 

To  me,  and  my  brother  and  sister.     I  marked  it  well. 

Then  follows  the  sublime  song  of  the  Parcse,  well  known 
through  translations. 

But  Iphigenia  is  not  a  victim  of  fate,  for  she  listens  stead 
fastly  to  the  god  in  her  breast.  Her  lips  are  incapable  of 
subterfuge.  She  obeys  her  own  heart,  tells  all  to  the  king, 


60  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

calls  up  his  better  nature,  wins,  hallows,  and  purifies  all 
around  her,  till  the  heaven-prepared  way  is  cleared  by  the 
obedient  child  of  heaven,  and  the  great  trespass  of  Tantalus 
cancelled  by  a  woman's  reliance  on  the  voice  of  her  inno 
cent  soul. 

If  it  be  not  possible  to  enhance  the  beauty  with  which  such 
ideal  figures  as  the  Iphigenia  and  the  Antigone  appeared  to 
the  Greek  mind,  yet  Goethe  has  unfolded  a  part  of  the  life 
of  this  being,  unknown  elsewhere  in  the  records  of  literature. 
The  character  of  the  priestess,  the  full  beauty  of  virgin 
womanhood,  solitary,  but  tender,  wise  and  innocent,  sensitive 
and  self-collected,  sweet  as  spring,  dignified  as  becomes  the 
chosen  servant  of  God,  each  gesture  and  word  of  deep  and 
delicate  significance,  —  where  else  is  such  a  picture  to  be 
found  ? 

It  was  not  the  courtier,  nor  the  man  of  the  world,  nor  the 
connoisseur,  nor  the  friend  of  Mephistopheles,  nor  Wilhelm 
the  Master,  nor  Egmont  the  generous,  free  liver,  that  saw 
Iphigenia  in  the  world  of  spirits,  but  Goethe,  in  his  first-born 
glory ;  Goethe,  the  poet ;  Goethe,  designed  to  be  the  brightest 
star  in  a  new  constellation.  Let  us  not,  in  surveying  his 
works  and  life,  abide  with  him  too  much  in  the  suburbs  and 
outskirts  of  himself.  Let  us  enter  into  his  higher  tendency, 
thank  him  for  such  angels  as  Iphigenia,  whose  simple  truth 
mocks  at  all  his  wise  "  Beschrankungen,"  and  hope  the  hour 
when,  girt  about  with  many  such,  he  will  confess,  contrary  to 
his  opinion,  given  in  his  latest  days,  that  it  is  well  worth 
while  to  live  seventy  years,  if  only  to  find  that  they  are  noth 
ing  in  the  sight  of  God. 


THOMAS  HOOD. 

Now  almost  the  last  light  has  gone  out  of  the  galaxy  that 
made  the  first  thirty  years  of  this  age  so  bright.  And  the 
dynasty  that  now  reigns  over  the  world  of  wit  and  poetry  is 
poor  and  pale,  indeed,  in  comparison. 

We  are  anxious  to  pour  due  libations  to  the  departed ;  we 
need  not  economize  our  wine ;  it  will  not  be  so  often  needed 
now. 

Hood  has  closed  the  most  fatiguing  career  in  the  world  — 
that  of  a  professed  wit ;  and  we  may  say  with  deeper  feeling 
than  of  others  who  shuffle  off  the  load  of  care,  May  he  rest  in 
peace  !  The  fatigues  of  a  conqueror,  a  missionary  preacher, 
even  of  an  active  philanthropist,  like  Howard,  are  nothing 
to  those  of  a  professed  wit.  Bad  enough  is  it  when  he  is  only 
a  man  of  society,  by  whom  every  one  expects  to  be  enlivened 
and  relieved  ;  who  can  never  talk  gravely  in  a  corner,  with 
out  those  around  observing  that  he  must  have  heard  some 
bad  news  to  be  so  out  of  spirits ;  who  can  never  make  a 
simple  remark,  while  eating  a  peaceful  dinner,  without  the 
table  being  set  in  a  roar  of  laughter,  as  when  Sheridan,  on 
such  an  occasion,  opened  his  lips  for  the  first  time  to  say  that 
"  he  liked  currant  jelly/'  For  these  unhappy  men  there  are 
no  intervals  of  social  repose,  no  long  silences  fed  by  the  mere 
feeling  of  sympathy  or  gently  entertained  by  observation,  no 
warm  quietude  in  the  mild  liveries  of  green  or  brown,  for  the 
world  has  made  up  its  mind  that  motley  is  their  only  wear, 
and  teases  them  to  jingle  their  bells  forever. 

But  far  worse  is  it  when  the  professed  wit  is  also  by  profes 
sion  a  writer,  and  finds  himself  obliged  to  coin  for  bread  those 


62  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

jokes  which,  in  the  frolic  exuberance  of  youth,  he  so  easily 
coined  for  fun.  We  can  conceive  of  no  existence  more  cruel, 
so  tormenting,  and  at  the  same  time  so  dull.  We  hear  that 
Hood  was  forever  behindhand  with  his  promises  to  pub 
lishers  ;  no  wonder !  But  when  we  hear  that  he,  in  conse 
quence,  lost  a  great  part  of  the  gains  of  his  hard  life,  and 
was,  as  a  result,  harassed  by  other  cares,  we  cannot  mourn 
to  lose  him,  if, 

"  After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well ; " 

or  if,  as  our  deeper  knowledge  leads  us  to  hope,  he  is  now 
engaged  in  a  better  life,  where  his  fancies  shall  take  their 
natural  place,  and  flicker  like  light  on  the  surface  of  a  pro 
found  and  full  stream  flowing  betwixt  rich  and  peaceful 
shores,  such  as,  no  less  than  the  drawbacks  upon  his  earthly 
existence,  are  indicated  in  the  following 

.  SONNET. 
The  curse  of  Adam,  the  old  curse  of  all, 

Though  I  inherit  in  this  feverish  life 

Of  worldly  toil,  vain  wishes,  and  hard  strife, 
And  fruitless  thought  in  care's  eternal  thrall, 
Yet  more  sweet  honey  than  of  bitter  gall 

I  taste  through  thee,  my  Eva,  my  sweet  wife. 

Then  what  was  Man's  lost  Paradise  ?  how  rife 
Of  bliss,  since  love  is  with  him  in  his  fall ! 

Such  as  our  own  pure  passion  still  might  frame 
Of  this  fair  earth  and  its  delightful  bowers, 

If  no  fell  sorrow,  like  the  serpent,  came 
To  trail  its  venom  o'er  the  sweetest  flowers  ; 
But,  O  !  as  many  and  such  tears  are  ours 

As  only  should  be  shed  for  guilt  and  shame. 

In  Hood,  as  in  all  true  wits,  the  smile  lightens  on  the 
verge  of  a  tear.     True  wit  and  humor  show  that  exquisite 


THOMAS  HOOD.  63 

sensibility  to  the  relations  of  life,  that  fine  perception  as  to 
slight  tokens  of  its  fearful,  hopeless  mysteries,  which  imply 
pathos  to  a  still  higher  degree  than  mirth. 

Hood  knew  and  welcomed  the  dower  which  nature  gave 
him  at  his  birth,  when  he  wrote  thus  :  — 

All  things  are  touched  with  melancholy 

Born  of  the  secret  soul's  mistrust, 
To  feel  her  fair  ethereal  wings 

Weighed  down  with  vile,  degraded  dust. 
Even  the  bright  extremes  of  joy 

Bring  on  conclusions  of  disgust, 
Like  the  sweet  blossoms  of  the  May, 

Whose  fragrance  ends  in  must. 
O,  give  her,  then,  her  tribute  just, 

Her  sighs  and  tears  and  musings  holy ; 
There  is  no  music  in  the  life 

That  sounds  with  idiot  laughter  solely ; 
There's  not  a  string  attuned  to  mirth, 

But  has  its  chord  in  melancholy. 

Hood  was  true  to  this  vow  of  acceptance.  He  vowed  to 
accept  willingly  the  pains  as  well  as  joys  of  life  for  what 
they  could  teach.  Therefore,  years  expanded  and  enlarged 
his  sympathies,  and  gave  to  his  lightest  jokes  an  obvious  har 
mony  with  a  great  moral  design,  not  obtrusively  obvious,  but 
enough  so  to  give  a  sweetness  and  permanent  complacency 
to  our  laughter.  Indeed,  what  is  written  in  his  gayer  mood 
has  affected  us  more,  as  spontaneous  productions  always  do, 
than  what  he  has  written  of  late  with  grave  design,  and  which 
has  been  so  much  lauded  by  men  too  obtuse  to  discern  a  latent 
meaning,  or  to  believe  in  a  good  purpose  unless  they  are  for 
mally  told  that  it  exists. 

The  later  serious  poems  of  Hood  are  well  known ;  so  are 
his  jest  books  and  novel.  We  have  now  in  view  to  speak 


64  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

rather  of  a  little  volume  of  poems  published  by  him  some 
years  since,  republished  here,  but  never  widely  circulated. 

When  a  book  or  a  person  comes  to  us  in  the  best  possible 
circumstances,  we  judge  —  not  too  favorably,  for  all  that  the 
book  or  person  can  suggest  is  a  part  of  its  fate,  and  what  is 
not  seen  under  the  most  favorable  circumstances  is  never 
quite  truly  seen  either  as  to  promise  or  performance  —  but 
we  form  a  judgment  above  what  can  be  the  average  sense  of 
the  world  in  general  as  to  its  merits,  which  may  be  esteemed, 
after  time  enough  has  elapsed,  a  tolerably  fair  estimate  of  per 
formance,  though  not  of  promise  or  suggestion. 

We  became  acquainted  with  these  poems  in  one  of  those 
country  towns  which  would  be  called,  abroad,  the  most  pro 
vincial  of  the  province.  The  inhabitants  had  lost  the  simpli 
city  of  farmers'  habits,  without  gaining  in  its  place  the 
refinement,  the  variety,  the  enlargement  of  civic  life.  Their 
industry  had  received  little  impulse  from  thought;  their 
amusement  was  gossip.  All  men  find  amusement  from  gossip 
—  literary,  artistic,  or  social ;  but  the  degrees  in  it  are  almost 
infinite.  They  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  scale ;  they  scruti 
nized  their  neighbors'  characters  and  affairs  incessantly,  im 
pertinently,  and  with  minds  unpurified  by  higher  knowledge ; 
consequently  the  bitter  fruits  of  envy  and  calumny  abounded. 

In  this  atmosphere  I  was  detained  two  months,  and  among 
people  very  uncongenial  both  to  my  tastes  and  notions  of 
right.  But  I  had  a  retreat  of  great  beauty.  The  town  lay 
on  the  bank  of  a  noble  river ;  behind  it  towered  a  high  and 
rocky  hill.  Thither  every  afternoon  went  the  lonely  stranger, 
to  await  the  fall  of  the  sunset  light  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
full  and  rapid  stream.  It  fell  like  a  smile  of  heavenly  joy ; 
the  white  sails  on  the  stream  glided  along  like  angel  thoughts ; 
the  town  itself  looked  like  a  fair  nest,  whence  virtue  and 
happiness  might  soar  with  sweetest  song.  So  looked  the  scene 
from  above  ;  and  that  hill  was  the  scene  of  many  an  aspira 
tion  and  many  an  effort  to  attain  as  high  a  point  of  view  for 


THOMAS  HOOD.  65 

the  mental  prospect,  in  the  hope  that  little  discrepancies,  or 
what  seemed  so  when  on  a  level  with  them,  might  also,  from 
above,  be  softened  into  beauty  and  found  subservient  to  a 
noble  design  on  the  whole. 

This  town  boasted  few  books,  and  the  accident  which  threw 
Hood's  poems  in  the  way  of  the  watcher  from  the  hill,  was  a 
very  fortunate  one.  They  afforded  a  true  companionship  to 
hours  which  knew  no  other,  and,  perhaps,  have  since  been 
overrated  from  association  with  what  they  answered  to  or 
suggested. 

Yet  there  are  surely  passages  in  them  which  ought  to  be 
generally  known  and  highly  prized.  And  if  their  highest 
value  be  for  a  few  individuals  with  whom  they  are  especially 
in  concord,  unlike  the  really  great  poems  which  bring  some 
thing  to  all,  yet  those  whom  they  please  will  be  very  much 
pleased. 

Hood  never  became  corrupted  into  a  hack  writer.  This 
shows  great  strength  under  his  circumstances.  Dickens  has 
fallen,  and  Sue  is  falling ;  for  few  men  can  sell  themselves  by 
inches  without  losing  a  cubit  from  their  stature.  But  Hood 
resisted  the  danger.  He  never  wrote  when  he  had  nothing 
to  say,  he  stopped  when  he  had  done,  and  nev^r  hashed  for  a 
second  meal  old  thoughts  which  had  been  drained  of  their 
choicest  juices.  His  heart  is  truly  human,  tender,  and  brave. 
From  the  absurdities  of  human  nature  he  argues  the  possi 
bility  of  its  perfection.  His  black  is  admirably  contrasted 
with  his  white,  but  his  love  has  no  converse  of  hate.  His 
descriptions  of  nature,  if  not  accurately  or  profoundly  evi 
dencing  insight,  are  unstudied,  fond,  and  reverential.  They 
are  fine  reveries  about  nature. 

He  has  tried  his  powers  on  themes  where  he  had  great 
rivals  — in  the  "  Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fairies,"  and  "  Hero 
and  Leander."  The  latter  is  one  of  the  finest  subjects  in  the 
world,  and  one,  too,  which  can  never  wear  out  as  long  as  each 
mind  shall  have  its  separate  ideal  of  what  a  meeting  would  be 
6* 


66  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

between  two  perfect  lovers,  in  the  full  bloom  of  beauty  and 
youth,  under  circumstances  the  most  exalting  to  passion,  be 
cause  the  most  trying,  and  with  the  most  romantic  accom 
paniments  of  scenery.  There  is  room  here  for  the  finest 
expression  of  love  and  grief,  for  the  wildest  remonstrance 
against  fate.  Why  are  they  made  so  lovely  and  so  beloved  ? 
Why  was  a  flower  brought  to  such  perfection,  and  then  culled 
for  no  use  ?  One  of  the  older  English  writers  has  written  an 
exquisite  poem  on  this  subject,  painting  a  youthful  pair,  fitted 
to  be  not  only  a  heaven  but  a  world  to  one  another.  Hood 
had  not  power  to  paint  or  conceive  such  fulness  of  character ; 
but,  in  a  lesser  style,  he  has  written  a  fine  poem.  The  best 
part  of  it,  however,  is  the  innocent  cruelty  and  grief  of  the 
Sea  Siren. 

"  Lycus  the  Centaur  "  is  also  a  poem  once  read  never  to 
be  forgotten.  The  hasty  trot  of  the  versification,  unfit  for  any 
other  theme,  on  this  betokens  well  the  frightened  horse.  Its 
mazy  and  bewildered  imagery,  with  its  countless  glancings 
and  glimpses,  expressed  powerfully  the  working  of  the  Circean 
spell,  while  the  note  of  human  sadness,  a  yearning  and  con 
demned  human  love,  thrills  through  the  whole  and  gives  it 
unity. 

The  Sonnets,  "  It  is  not  death,"  &c.,  and  that  on  Silence, 
are  equally  admirable.  Whoever  reads  these  poems  will 
regard  Hood  as  something  more  than  a  great  wit,  —  as  a 
great  poet  also. 

To  express  this  is  our  present  aim,  and  therefore  we  shall 
leave  to  others,  or  another  time,  the  retrospect  of  his  comic  writ 
ings.  But  having,  on  the  late  promptings  of  love  for  the  de 
parted,  looked  over  these,  we  have  been  especially  amused  with 
the  "  Schoolmistress  Abroad,"  which  was  new  to  us.  Miss 
Crane,  a  "  she  Mentor,  stiff  as  starch,  formal  as  a  Dutch  ledge, 
sensitive  as  a  daguerreotype,  and  so  tall,  thin,  and  upright,  that 
supposing  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  to  have  been  a  poplar,  she 
was  the  very  Dryad  to  have  fitted  it,"  was  left,  with  a  sister 


THOMAS    HOOD.  67 

little  better  endowed  with  the  pliancy  and  power  of  adaptation 
which  the  exigencies  of  this  varied  world-scene  demand,  in 
attendance  upon  a  sick  father,  in  a  foreign  inn,  where  she 
cannot  make  herself  understood,  because  her  French  is  not 
"  French  French,  but  English  French,"  and  no  two  things  in 
nature  or  art  can  be  more  unlike.  Now  look  at  the  position 
of  the  sisters. 

"  The  younger,  Miss  Ruth,  was  somewhat  less  disconcerted. 
She  had  by  her  position  the  greater  share  in  the  active  duties 
of  Lebanon  House,  and  under  ordinary  circumstances  would 
not  have  been  utterly  at  a  loss  what  to  do  for  the  comfort  or 
relief  of  her  parent.  But  in  every  direction  in  which  her 
instinct  and  habits  would  have  prompted  her  to  look,  the 
materials  she  sought  were  deficient.  There  was  no  easy 
chair  —  no  fire  to  wheel  it  to  —  no  cushion  to  shake  up  —  no 
cupboard  to  go  to  —  no  female  friend  to  consult  —  no  Miss 
Parfitt  —  no  cook  —  no  John  to  send  for  the  doctor  —  no 
English  —  no  French  —  nothing  but  that  dreadful  '  Gefullig/ 
or  '  Ja  Wohl,'  and  the  equally  incomprehensible  '  Gnadige 
Frau!' 

"  '  Der  herr,'  said  the  German  coachman,  i  ist  sehr  krank/ 
(the  gentleman  is  very  sick.) 

"  The  last  word  had  occurred  so  frequently  on  the  organ  of 
the  Schoolmistress,  that  it  had  acquired  in  her  mind  some 
important  significance. 

"  '  Ruth,  what  is  krank  ?  ' 

"  *  How  should  I  know  ? '  retorted  Ruth,  with  an  asperity 
apt  to  accompany  intense  excitement  and  perplexity.  '  In 
English,  it's  a  thing  that  helps  to  pull  the  bell.  But  look  at 
papa  —  do  help  to  support  him  —  you're  good  for  nothing.' 

"  *  I  am,  indeed,'  murmured  poor  Miss  Priscilla,  with  a 
gentle  shake  of  her  head,  and  a  low,  slow  sigh  of  acquiescence. 
Alas  !  as  she  ran  over  the  catalogue  of  her  accomplishments, 
the  more  she  remembered  what  she  could  do  for  her  sick 
parent,  the  more  helpless  and  useless  she  appeared.  For 


68  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

instance,  she  could  have  embroidered  him  a  night-cap  —  or 
knitted  him  a  silk  purse  —  or  plaited  him  a  guard-chain  — 
or  cut  him  out  a  watch-paper  —  or  ornamented  his  braces 
with  bead- work  —  or  embroidered  his  waistcoat  —  or  worked 
him  a  pair  of  slippers  —  or  open  worked  his  pocket  handker 
chief.  She  could  even,  if  such  an  operation  would  have  been 
comforting  or  salutary,  have  roughcasted  him  with  shell-work 

—  or  coated  him  with  red  or  black  seals  —  or  encrusted  him 
with  blue  alum  —  or  stuck  him  all  over  with  colored  wafers 

—  or  festooned  him. 

"  But  alas  !  what  would  it  have  availed  her  poor  dear  papa 
in  the  spasmodics,  if  she  had  even  festooned  him,  from  top  to 
toe,  with  little  rice-paper  roses  ?  " 

The  comments  of  the  female  chorus,  as  the  author  reads 
aloud  the  sorrows  of  Miss  Crane,  are  droll  as  Hood's  drollest. 
Who  can  say  more  ? 

So  farewell,  gentle,  generous,  inventive,  genial,  and  most 
amusing  friend.  We  thank  thee  for  both  tears  and  laughter ; 
tears  which  were  not  heart-breaking,  laughter  which  was 
never  frivolous  or  unkind.  In  thy  satire  was  no  gall,  in  the 
sting  of  thy  winged  wit  no  venom,  in  the  pathos  of  thy  sorrow 
no  enfeebling  touch !  Thou  hadst  faults  as  a  writer,  we  know 
not  whether  as  a  man ;  but  who  cares  to  name  or  even  to 
note  them  ?  Surely  there  is  enough  on  the  sunny  side  of 
the  peach  to  feed  us  and  make  us  bless  the  tree  from  which 
it  fell. 


LETTERS  FROM  A  LANDSCAPE  PAINTER.* 

THIS  is  a  very  pleasing  book,  and  if  the  "  Essays  of  Sum 
mer  Hours "  resemble  it,  we  are  not  surprised  at  the  favor 
with  which  they  have  been  received,  not  only  in  this  country, 
but  in  England. 

The  writer  is,  we  believe,  very  young,  and  as  these  Essays 
have  awakened  in  us  a  friendly  expectation  which  he  has  time 
and  talent  to  fulfil,  we  will,  at  this  early  hour,  proffer  our 
counsel  on  two  points. 

First.  Avoid  details,  so  directly  personal,  of  emotion.  A 
young  and  generous  mind,  seeing  the  deceit  and  cold  reserve 
which  so  often  palsy  men  who  write,  no  less  than  those  who 
act,  may  run  into  the  opposite  extreme.  But  frankness  must 
be  tempered  by  delicacy,  or  elevated  into  the  region  of  poetry. 
You  may  tell  the  world  at  large  what  you  please,  if  you  make 
it  of  universal  importance  by  transporting  it  into  the  field  of 
general  human  interest.  But  your  private  griefs,  merely  as 
yours,  belong  to  yourself,  your  nearest  friends,  to  Heaven  and 
to  nature.  There  is  a  limit  set  by  good  taste,  or  the  sense  of 
beauty,  on  such  subjects,  which  each,  who  seeks,  may  find  for 
himself. 

Second.  Be  more  sparing  of  your  praise :  above  all,  of  its 
highest  terms.  We  should  have  a  sense  of  mental  as  well 
as  moral  honor,  which,  while  it  makes  us  feel  the  baseness  of 
uttering  merely  hasty  and  ignorant  censure,  will  also  forbid  that 
hasty  and  extravagant  praise  which  strict  truth  will  not  justify. 
A  man  of  honor  wishes  to  utter  no  word  to  which  he  cannot 
adhere.  The  offices  of  Poet  —  of  Hero-worship  — are  sacred, 

*  "  By  the  Author  of  Essays  of  Summer  Hours." 

(69) 


70  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

and  he  who  has  a  heart  to  appreciate  the  excellent  should  call 
nothing  excellent  which  falls  short  of  being  so.  Leave  your 
self  some  incense  worthy  of  the  best ;  do  not  lavish  it  on  the 
merely  good.  It  is  better  to  be  too  cool  than  extravagant  in 
praise ;  and  though  mediocrity  may  be  elated  if  it  can  draw 
to  itself  undue  honors,  true  greatness  shrinks  from  the  least 
exaggeration  of  its  claims.  The  truly  great  are  too  well 
aware  how  difficult  is  the  attainment  of  excellence,  what 
labors  and  sacrifices  it  requires,  even  from  genius,  either  to 
flatter  themselves  as  to  their  works,  or  to  be  otherwise  than 
grieved  at  idolatry  from  others ;  and  so,  with  best  wishes,  and 
a  hope  to  meet  again,  we  bid  farewell  to  the  "  Landscape 
Painter." 


BEETHOVEN.* 

THIS  book  bears  on  its  outside  the  title,  "  Life  of  Beetho 
ven,  by  Moscheles."  It  is  really  only  a  translation  of  Schin- 
dler,  and  it  seems  quite  unfair  to  bring  Moscheles  so  much 
into  the  foreground,  merely  because  his  name  is  celebrated  in 
England.  He  has  only  contributed  a  few  notes  and  a  short 
introduction,  giving  a  most  pleasing  account  of  his  own  devo 
tion  to  the  Master.  Schindler  was  the  trusty  friend  of 
Beethoven,  and  one  whom  he  himself  elected  to  write  his 
biography.  Inadequate  as  it  is,  there  is  that  fidelity  in  the  col 
lection  of  materials  which  makes  it  serviceable  to  our  knowl 
edge  of  Beethoven,  and  we  wish  it  might  be  reprinted  in 
America.  Though  there  is  little  knowledge  of  music  here,  yet 
so  far  as  any  exists  in  company  with  a  free  development  of 
mind,  the  music  of  Beethoven  is  the  music  v/hich  delights, 
which  awakens,  which  inspires,  an  infinite  hope. 

This  influence  of  these  most  profound,  bold,  original  and  sin 
gular  compositions,  even  upon  the  uninitiated,  above  those  of 
a  simpler  construction  and  more  obvious  charms,  we  have  ob 
served  with  great  pleasure.  For  we  think  its  cause  lies  deep, 
far  beneath  fancy,  taste,  fashion,  or  any  accidental  cause. 

It  is  because  there  is  a  real  and  steady  unfolding  of  cer 
tain  thoughts  which  pervade  the  civilized  world.  They  strike 
their  roots  through  to  us  beneath  the  broad  Atlantic ;  and 
these  roots  shoot  stems  uuward  to  the  light  wherever  the  soil 
allows  them  free  course. 

*  The  Life  of  Beethoven,  including  his  Correspondence  with  his  Friends, 
numerous  characteristic  Traits,  and  Remarks  on  his  Musical  Works.  Edited 
hy  Ignace  Moscheles,  Pianist  to  His  Royal  Highness  Prince  Albert. 


72  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Our  era,  which  permits  of  freer  inquiry,  of  bolder  experi 
ment,  than  ever  before,  and  a  firmer,  broader  basis,  may  also, 
we  sincerely  trust,  be  depended  on  for  nobler  discovery  and  a 
grander  scope  of  thought. 

Although  we  sympathize  with  the  sadness  of  those  who 
lament  the  decay  of  forms  and  methods  round  which  so  many 
associations  have  wound  their  tendrils,  and  understan.d  the  suf 
ferings  which  gentle,  tender  natures  undergo  from  the  forlorn 
homelessness  of  a  period  of  doubt,  speculation,  reconstruction 
in  every  way,  yet  we  cannot  disjoin  ourselves,  by  one  mo 
ment's  fear  or  regret,  from  the  advance  corps.  That  body, 
leagued  by  an  invisible  tie,  has  received  too  deep  an  assur 
ance  that  the  spirit  is  not  dead  nor  sleeping,  to  look  back  to 
the  past,  even  if  they  must  advance  uniformly  through  scenes 
of  decay  and  the  rubbish  of  falling  edifices. 

But  how  far  it  is  from  being  so  !  How  many  developments, 
in  various  ways,  of  truth !  How  manifold  the  aspirations  of 
love !  In  the  church  the  attempt  is  now  to  reconstruct  on  the 
basis  proposed  by  its  founder  —  "  Love  one  another ;  "  in  the 
philosophy  of  mind,  if  completeness  of  system  is,  as  yet,  far 
from  being  attained,  yet  mistakes  and  vain  dogmas  are  set 
aside,  and  examinations  conducted  with  intelligence  and  an 
enlarged  discernment  of  what  is  due  both  to  God  and  man. 
Science  advances,  'in  some  route  with  colossal  strides ;  new 
glimpses  are  daily  gained  into  the  arcana  of  natural  history, 
and  the  mysteries  attendant  on  the  modes  of  growth,  are  laid 
open  to  our  observation ;  while  in  chemistry,  electricity,  mag 
netism,  we  seem  to  be  getting  nearer  to  the  law  of  life  which 
governs  them,  and  in  astronomy  "  fathoming  the  heavens," 
to  use  the  sublime  expression  of  Herschel,  daily  to  greater 
depths,  we  find  ourselves  admitted  to  a  perception  of  the  uni 
versal  laws  and  causes,  where  harmony,  permanence  and  per 
fection  leave  us  no  excuse  for  a  moment  of  despondency, 
while  under  the  guidance  of  a  Power  who  has  ordered  all 
so  well. 


BEETHOVEN.  73 

Then,  if  the  other  arts  suffer  a  temporary  paralysis,  and 
notwithstanding  the  many  proofs  of  talent  and  genius,  we  con 
sider  that  is  the  case  with  architecture,  painting,  and  sculp 
ture,  music  is  not  only  thoroughly  vital,  but  in  a  state  of 
rapid  development.  The  last  hundred  years  have  witnessed 
a  succession  of  triumphs  in  this  art,  the  removal  of  obstruc 
tions,  the  transcending  of  limits,  and  the  opening  new  realms 
of  thought,  to  an  extent  that  makes  the  infinity  of  promise 
and  hope  very  present  with  us.  And  take  notice  that  the 
prominent  means  of  excellence  now  are  not  in  those  ways 
which  give  form  to  thought  already  existent,  but  which  open 
new  realms  to  thought.  Those  who  live  most  with  the  life 
of  their  age,  feel  that  it  is  one  not  only  beautiful,  positive,  full 
of  suggestion,  but  vast,  flowing,  of  infinite  promise.  It  is  dy 
namics  that  interest  us  now,  and  from  electricity  and  music 
we  borrow  the  best  illustrations  of  what  we  know. 

Let  no  one  doubt  that  these  grand  efforts  at  synthesis  are 
capable  of  as  strict  analysis.  Indeed,  it  is  wonderful  with 
what  celerity  and  precision  the  one  process  follows  up  the 
other. 

Of  this  great  life  which  has  risen  from  the  stalk  and  the 
leaf  into  bud,  and  will  in  the  course  of  this  age  be  in  full 
flower,  Beethoven  is  the  last  and  greatest  exponent.  His 
music  is  felt,  by  every  soul  whom  it  affects,  to  be  the  expla 
nation  of  the  past  and  the  prophecy  of  the  future.  It  con 
tains  the  thoughts  of  the  time.  A  dynasty  of  great  men  pre 
ceded  him,  each  of  whom  made  conquests  and  accumulated 
treasures  which  prepared  the  way  for  his  successor.  Bach, 
Handel,  Hadyn,  Mozart,  were  corner-stones  of  the  glorious 
temple.  Who  shall  succeed  Beethoven  ?  A  host  of  musi 
cians,  full  of  talent,  even  of  genius,  live  now  he  is  dead  ;  but 
the  greatest  among  them  is  confessed  by  all  men  to  be  but  of 
Lilliputian  size  compared  with  this  demigod.  Indeed,  it 
should  be  so  !  As  copious  draughts  of  soul  have  been  given 
to  the  earth,  as  she  can  quaff  for  a  century  or  more.  Disci- 
7 


74  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

pies  and  critics  must  follow,  to  gather  up  the  gleanings  of  the 
golden  grain. 

It  is  observable  as  an  earnest  of  the  great  Future  which 
opens  for  this  country,  that  such  a  genius  is  so  easily  and  so 
much  appreciated  here,  by  those  who  have  not  gone  through 
the  steps  that  prepared  the  way  for  him  in  Europe.  He  is 
felt,  because  he  expresses,  in  full  tones,  the  thoughts  that  lie 
at  the  heart  of  our  own  existence,  though  we  have  not  found 
means  to  stammer  them  as  yet.  To  those  who  have  obtained 
some  clew  to  all  this,  —  and  their  number  is  daily  on  the  in 
crease, —  this  biography  of  Beethoven  will  be  very  interesting. 
They  will  here  find  a  picture  of  the  great  man,  as  he  looked 
and  moved  in  actual  life,  though  imperfectly  painted,  —  as  by 
one  who  saw  the  figure  from  too  low  a  stand-point. 

It  will  require  the  united  labors  of  a  constellation  of  minds 
to  paint  the  portrait  of  Beethoven.  That  of  his  face,  as  seen 
in  life,  prefixed  to  these  volumes,  is  better  than  any  we  have 
seen.  It  bears  tokens  of  the  force,  the  grandeur,  the  gro- 
tesqueness  of  his  genius,  and  at  the  same  time  shows  the 
melancholy  that  came  to  him  from  the  great  misfortune  of 
his  life  —  his  deafness  ;  and  the  affectionateness  of  his  deep 
heart. 

Moscheles  thus  gives  a  very  pleasing  account  of  his  first 
cognizance  of  Beethoven  :  — 

"  I  had  been  placed  under  the  guidance  and  tuition  of 
Dionysius  Weber,  the  founder  and  present  director  of  the 
Prague  Musical  Conservatory ;  and  he,  fearing  that  in  my 
eagerness  to  read  new  music,  I  might  injure  the  systematic 
development  of  my  piano-forte  playing,  prohibited  the  library, 
a  circulating  musical  library,  and  in  a  plan  for  my  musical 
education  which  he  laid  before  my  parents,  made  it  an  ex 
press  condition  that  for  three  years  I  should  study  no  other 
authors  but  Mozart,  Clemente,  and  S.  Bach.  I  must  confess, 
however,  that  in  spite  of  such  prohibition,  I  visited  the  library, 
gaining  access  to  it  through  my  pocket  money.  It  was  about 


BEETHOVEN.  75 

this  time  that  I  learned  from  some  schoolfellows  that  a  young 
composer  had  appeared  in  Vienna,  who  wrote  the  oddest  stuff 
possible,  such  as  no  one  could  either  play  or  understand  — 
crazy  music,  in  opposition  to  all  rule  ;  and  that  this  compo 
ser's  name  was  Beethoven.  On  repairing  to  the  library  to  sat 
isfy  my  curiosity  as  to  this  so-called  eccentric  genius,  I  found 
there  Beethoven's  *  Senate  Pathetique.'  This  was  in  the 
year  1804.  My  pocket  money  would  not  suffice  for  the  pur 
chase  of  it,  so  I  secretly  copied  it.  The  novelty  of  its  style 
was  so  attractive  to  me,  and  I  became  so  enthusiastic  in  my 
admiration  of  it,  that  I  forgot  myself  so  far  as  to  mention  my 
new  acquisition  to  my  master,  who  reminded  me  of  his  injunc 
tion,  and  warned  me  not  to  play  or  study  any  eccentric  pro 
ductions  until  I  had  based  my  style  upon  more  solid  models. 
Without,  however,  minding  his  injunction,  I  seized  upon  the 
piano-forte  works  of  Beethoven  as  they  successively  ap 
peared,  and  in  them  found  a  solace  and  delight  such  as  no 
other  composer  afforded  me. 

"  In  the  year  1809,  my  studies  with  my  master,  Weber, 
closed ;  and  being  then  also  fatherless,  I  chose  Vienna  for 
my  residence,  to  work  out  my  future  musical  career.  Above 
all,  I  longed  to  see  and  become  acquainted  with  that  man  who 
had  exercised  so  powerful  an  influence  over  my  whole  being ; 
whom,  though  I  scarcely  understood,  I  blindly  worshipped. 
I  learned  that  Beethoven  was  most  difficult  of  access,  and 
would  admit  no  pupil  but  Bies  ;  and  for  a  long  time  my  anx 
iety  to  see  him  remained  ungratified.  In  the  year  1810,  how 
ever,  the  longed-for  opportunity  presented  itself.  I  happened 
to  be  one  morning  in  the  music  shop  of  Domenico  Artaria, 
who  had  just  been  publishing  some  of  my  early  attempts  at 
composition,  when  a  man  entered  with  short  and  hasty  steps, 
and  gliding  through  the  circle  of  ladies  and  professors  assem 
bled  on  business,  or  talking  over  musical  matters,  without 
looking  up,  as  though  he  wished  to  pass  unnoticed,  made  his 
way  direct  for  Artaria's  private  office  at  the  bottom  of  the 


76  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

shop.  Presently  Artaria  called  me  in,  and  said,  '  This  is 
Beethoven,'  —  and  to  the  composer,  '  This  is  the  youth  of 
whom  I  have  been  speaking  to  you.'  Beethoven  gave  me  a 
friendly  nod,  and  said  he  had  just  been  hearing  a  favorable 
account  of  me.  To  some  modest  and  humble  expressions 
which  I  stammered  forth  he  made  no  reply,  and  seemed  to 
wish  to  break  off  the  conversation.  I  stole  away  with  a 
greater  longing  for  that  which  I  had  sought,  than  before  this 
meeting,  thinking  to  myself,  '  Am  I  then,  indeed,  such  a  no 
body  that  he  could  not  put  one  musical  question  to  me  ?  nor 
express  one  wish  to  know  who  had  been  my  master,  or 
whether  I  had  any  acquaintance  with  his  works  ?  '  My  only 
satisfactory  mode  of  explaining  the  matter,  and  comforting 
myself  for  the  omission,  was  in  Beethoven's  tendency  to  deaf 
ness  ;  for  I  had  seen  Artaria  speaking  close  to  his  ear.  But 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  the  more  I  was  excluded  from  the 
private  intercourse  which  I  so  earnestly  coveted,  the  closer 
I  would  follow  Beethoven  in  all  the  productions  of  his 
mind." 

If  Moscheles  had  never  seen  more  of  Beethoven,  how  re 
joiced  he  would  have  been  on  reading  his  pathetic  expres 
sions  recorded  in  those  volumes,  as  to  the  misconstructions 
he  knew  his  fellow-men  must  put  on  conduct  caused  by  his 
calamity,  at  having  detected  the  true  cause  of  coldness  in 
his  own  instance,  and  that  no  mean  suggestions  of  offended 
vanity  made  him  false  to  the  genius,  because  repelled  by  the 
man  ! 

Moscheles  did  see  him  further,  and  learned  a  great  deal 
from  this  intercourse,  though  it  never  became  intimate.  He 
closes  with  these  excellent  remarks  :  — 

"  My  feelings  with  respect  to  Beethoven's  music  have 
undergone  no  variation,  save  to  become  warmer.  In  my  first 
half  score  of  years  of  acquaintance  with  his  works,  he  was 
repulsive  to  me,  as  well  as  attractive.  In  each  of  them,  while 
I  felt  my  mind  fascinated  by  the  prominent  idea,  and  my  en- 


BEETHOVEN.  77 

thusiasm  kindled  by  the  flashes  of  his  genius,  his  unlooked- 
for  episodes,  shrill  dissonances,  and  bold  modulations  gave 
me  an  unpleasant  sensation.  But  how  soon  did  I  become 
reconciled  to  them  !  all  that  had  appeared  hard  I  soon  found 
indispensable.  The  gnome-like  pleasantries,  which  at  first 
appeared  too  distorted,  the  stormy  masses  of  sound  which  I 
found  too  chaotic,  I  have  in  after  times  learned  to  love.  But 
while  retracting  my  early  critical  exceptions,  I  must  still 
maintain  as  my  creed  that  eccentricities  like  those  of  Beet 
hoven  are  reconcilable  with  his  works  alone,  and  are  dangerous 
models  to  other  composers,  many  of  whom  have  been  wrecked 
in  their  attempts  at  imitation." 

No  doubt  the  peculiarities  of  Beethoven  are  inimitable, 
though  as  great  would  be  as  welcome  in  a  mind  of  equal 
greatness.  The  natural  office  of  such  a  genius  is  to  rouse 
others  to  a  use  and  knowledge  of  their  own  faculties ;  never 
to  induce  imitation  of  its  own  individuality. 

As  an  instance  of  the  justice  and  undoubting  clearness  of 
such,  a  mind,  as  to  its  own  methods,  take  the  following  anec 
dote  from  Beethoven's  "  Pupil  Ries  " :  — 

"  All  the  initiated  must  be  interested  in  the  striking  fact 
which  occurred  respecting  one  of  Beethoven's  last  solo  so 
natas,  (in  B  major,  with  the  great  fugue,  Op.  106,)  a  sonata 
which  has  forty-one  pages  of  print.  Beethoven  had  sent  it  to 
me,  to  London,  for  sale,  that  it  might  appear  there  at  the 
same  time  as  in  Germany.  The  engraving  was  completed, 
and  I  in  daily  expectation  of  the  letter  naming  the  day  of 
publication.  This  arrived  at  last,  but  with  this  extraordinary 
request :  *  Prefix  the  following  two  notes,  as  a  first  bar,  to  the 
beginning  of  the  adagio.'  This  adagio  has  from  nine  to  ten 
pages  of  print.  I  own  the  thought  struck  me  involuntarily 
that  all  might  not  be  right  with  my  dear  old  master,  a  rumor 
to  that  effect  having  often  been  spread.  What !  add  two  notes 
to  a  composition  already  worked  out  and  out,  and  completed 
six  months  ago  ?  But  my  astonishment  was  yet  to  be  height- 
7* 


78  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

ened  by  the  effect  of  these  two  notes.  Never  could  such  be 
found  again  —  so  striking  —  so  important;  no,  not  even  if 
contemplated  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  composition.  I 
would  advise  every  true  lover  of  the  art  to  play  this  ada 
gio  first  without,  and  then  with  these  two  notes  which  now 
form  the  first  bar,  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  share  in  my 
opinion." 

No  instance  could  more  forcibly  show  how  in  the  case  of 
Beethoven,  as  in  that  of  other  transcendent  geniuses,  the  cry 
of  insanity  is  raised  by  vulgar  minds  on  witnessing  extraor 
dinary  manifestations  of  power.  Such  geniuses  perceive  results 
so  remote,  are  alive  to  combinations  so  subtle,  that  common 
men  cannot  rise  high  enough  to  see  why  they  think  or  do  as  they 
do,  and  settle  the  matter  easily  to  their  own  satisfaction,  cry 
ing,  "  He  is  mad  "  —  "  He  hath  a  devil."  Genius  perceives 
the  efficacy  of  slight  signs  of  thought,  and  loves  best  the  sim 
plest  symbols  ;  coarser  minds  demand  coarse  work,  long  prep 
arations,  long  explanations. 

But  genius  heeds  them  not,  but  fills  the  atmosphere  with 
irresistible  purity,  till  they  also  are  pervaded  by  the  delicate 
influence,  which,  too  subtile  for  their  ears  and  eyes,  enters  with 
the  air  they  breathe,  or  through  the  pores  of  the  skin. 

The  life  of  a  Beethoven  is  written  in  his  works ;  and  all 
that  can  be  told  of  his  life  beside,  is  but  as  marginal  notes  on 
that  broad  page.  Yet  since  we  have  these  notes,  it  is  pleas 
ant  to  have  them  in  harmony  with  the  page.  The  acts  and 
words  of  Beethoven  are  what  we  should  expect,  —  noble, 
leonine,  impetuous,  —  yet  tender.  His  faults  are  the  faults  of 
one  so  great  that  he  found  few  paths  wide  enough  for  his 
tread,  and  knew  not  how  to  moderate  it.  They  are  not  faults 
in  themselves,  but  only  in  relation  to  the  men  who  surrounded 
him.  Among  his  peers  he  would  not  have  had  faults.  As  it 
is,  they  hardly  deserve  the  name.  His  acts  were  generally 
great  and  benignant ;  only  in  transports  of  sudden  passion  at 
what  he  thought  base  did  he  ever  injure  any  one.  If  he 


BEETHOVEN.  79 

found  himself  mistaken,  he  could  not  humble  himself  enough, 
—  but  far  outwent,  in  his  contrition,  what  was  due  to  those 
whom  he  had  offended.  So  it  is  apt  to  be  with  magnanimous 
and  tender  natures ;  they  will  humble  themselves  in  a  way 
that  those  of  a  coarser  or  colder  make  think  shows  weakness 
or  want  of  pride.  But  they  do  so  because  a  little  discord  and 
a  little  wrong  is  as  painful  to  them  as  a  great  deal  to  others. 

In  one  of  his  letters  to  a  young  friend,  Beethoven  thus 
magnanimously  confesses  his  errors  :  — 

"  I  could  not  converse  with  you  and  yours  with  that  peace 
of  mind  which  I  could  have  desired,  for  the  late  wretched 
altercation  was  hovering  before  me,  showing  me  my  own  des 
picable  conduct.  But  so  it  was  ;  and  what  would  I  not  give 
could  I  obliterate  from  the  page  of  my  life  this  last  action,  so 
degrading  to  my  character,  and  so  unlike  my  usual  pro 
ceedings  ! " 

It  seems  this  action  of  his  was  not  of  importance  in  the 
eyes  of  others.  Of  the  causes  which  acted  upon  him  at  such 
times  he  gives  intimations  in  another  letter. 

"  I  had  been  wrought  into  this  burst  of  passion  by  many 
an  unpleasant  circumstance  of  an  earlier  date.  I  have  the 
gift  of  concealing  and  restraining  my  irritability  on  many  sub 
jects  ;  but  if  I  happen  to  be  touched  at  any  time  when  I  am 
more  than  usually  susceptible  of  anger,  I  burst  forth  more 
violently  than  any  one  else.  B.  has  doubtless  most  excellent 
qualities,  but  he  thinks  himself  utterly  without  faults,  and  yet 
is  most  open  to  blame  for  those  for  which  he  censures  others. 
He  has  a  littleness  of  mind  which  I  have  held  in  contempt 
since  my  infancy." 

As  a  correspondent  example  of  the  manner  in  which  true 
greatness  apologizes  for  its  errors,  we  must  quote  a  letter, 
lately  made  public,  from  Sir  Isaac  Newton  to  Mr.  Locke. 

"  Sir :  Being  of  opinion  that  you  endeavored  to  embroil 
me  with  women,  and  by  other  means,  I  was  so  much  affected 


80  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

with  it  as  that,  when  one  told  me  you  were  sickly,  and  would 
not  live,  I  answered,  '  'Twere  better  if  you  were  dead.'  I 
desire  you  to  forgive  me  this  uncharitableness,  for  I  am  now 
satisfied  that  what  you  have  done  is  just,  and  I  beg  your  par 
don  for  having  had  hard  thoughts  of  you  for  it,  and  for  rep 
resenting  that  you  struck  at  the  root  of  morality  in  a  princi 
ple  you  laid  down  in  your  book  of  ideas,  and  designed  to  pursue 
in  another  book,  and  that  I  took  you  for  a  Hobbist.  I  beg  your 
pardon  also  for  saying  or  thinking  that  there  was  a  design  to 
sell  me  an  office,  or  to  embroil  me. 

"  I  am  your  most  humble  and  unfortunate  servant, 

"ISAAC  NEWTON." 

And  this  letter,  observe,  was  quoted  as  proof  of  insanity  in 
Newton.  Locke,  however,  shows  by  his  reply  that  he  did  not 
think  the  power  of  full  sincerity  and  elevation  above  self-love 
proved  a  man  to  be  insane. 

At  a  happy  period  Beethoven  thus  unveils  the  generous 
sympathies  of  his  heart. 

"  My  compositions  are  well  paid,  and  I  may  say  I  have 
more  orders  than  I  can  well  execute ;  six  or  seven  publishers, 
and  more,  being  ready  to  take  any  of  my  works.  I  need  no 
longer  submit  to  being  bargained  with ;  I  ask  my  terms,  and 
am  paid.  You  see  this  is  an  excellent  thing ;  as,  for  instance, 
I  see  a  friend  in  want,  and  my  purse  does  not  at  the  moment 
permit  me  to  assist  him ;  I  have  but  to  sit  down  and  write, 
and  my  friend  is  no  longer  in  need." 

Some  additional  particulars  are  given,  in  the  letters  col 
lected  by  Moscheles,  of  the  struggles  of  his  mind  during  the 
coming  on  of  deafness.  This  calamity,  falling  upon  the  great 
est  genius  of  his  time,  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  —  a  calamity 
which  threatened  to  destroy  not  only  all  enjoyment  of  life, 
but  the  power  of  using  the  vast  treasure  with  which  he  had 
been  endowed  for  the  use  of  all  men,  —  casts  common  ills  so 
into  the  shade  that  they  can  scarcely  be  seen.  Who  dares 


BEETHOVEN.  81 

complain,  since  Beethoven  could  resign  himself,  to  such  an  ill 
at  such  a  time  as  this  ? 

"This  beautiful  country  of  mine,  what  was  my  lot  in 
it  ?  The  hope  of  a  happy  futurity.  This  might  now  be 
realized  if  I  were  freed  from  my  affliction.  0,  freed  from 
that,  I  should  compass  the  world !  I  feel  it  —  my  youth  is 
but  beginning ;  have  I  not  been  hitherto  but  a  sickly  crea 
ture  ?  My  physical  powers  have  for  some  time  been  mate 
rially  increasing  —  those  of  my  mind  likewise.  I  feel  my 
self  nearer  and  nearer  the  mark ;  I  feel  but  cannot  describe 
it ;  this  alone  is  the  vital  principle  of  your  Beethoven.  No 
rest  for  me  :  I  know  of  none  but  in  sleep,  and  I  grieve  at 
having  to  sacrifice  to  that  more  time  than  I  have  hitherto 
deemed  necessary.  Take  but  one  half  of  my  disease  from 
me,  and  I  will  return  to  you  a  matured  and  accomplished 
man,  renewing  the  ties  of  our  friendship  ;  for  you  shall  see  me 
as  happy  as  I  may  be  in  this  sublunary  world ;  not  as  a  suf 
ferer  ;  no,  that  would  be  more  than  I  could  bear ;  I  will 
blunt  the  sword  of  fate ;  it  shall  not  utterly  destroy  me.  How 
beautiful  it  is  to  live  a  thousand  lives  in  one !  No ;  I  am 
not  made  for  a  retired  life  —  I  feel  it." 

He  did  blunt  the  sword  of  fate ;  he  did  live  a  thousand 
lives  in  one ;  but  that  sword  had  power  to  inflict  a  deep  and 
poisoned  wound ;  those  thousand  lives  cost  him  the  pangs  of 
a  thousand  deaths.  He,  born  for  perpetual  conquest,  was  con 
demned  through  life  to  "  resignation."  Let  any  man,  dis 
posed  to  complain  of  his  own  ills,  read  the  "  Will "  of  Beet 
hoven  ;  and  see  if  he  dares  speak  of  himself  above  a  whisper, 
after. 

The  matter  of  interest  new  to  us  in  this  English  book  is  in 
notes  and  appendix.  Schindler's  biography,  whose  plain  and 
naive  style  is  fit  for  the  subject,  is  ironed  out  and  plaited 
afresh  to  suit,  the  "genteel"  English,  in  this  translation. 
Elsewhere  we  have  given  in  brief  the  strong  lineaments  and 


82  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

piquant  anecdotes  from  this  biography;*  here  there  is  not 
room :  smooth  and  shorn  as  it  is,  we,  wish  the  translation 
might  be  reprinted  here. 

We  may  give,  at  parting,  two  directions  for  the  study  of 
Beethoven's  genius  and  the  perusal  of  his  biography  in  two 
sayings  of  his  own.  For  the  biography,  "  The  limits  have 
never  yet  been  discovered  which  genius  and  industry  could 
not  transcend."  For  the  music,  "  From  the  depths  of  the 
soul  brought  forth,  she  (Poesy)  can  only  by  the  depths  of 
the  soul  be  received  or  understood." 

[*  See  article  on  Beethoven,  in  Margaret's  volume,  entitled  "  Art,  Litera 
ture,  and  the  Drama."  —  ED.] 


BROWN'S   NOVELS.* 

WE  rejoice  to  see  these  reprints  of  Brown's  novels,  as  we 
have  long  been  ashamed  that  one  who  ought  to  be  the  pride 
of  the  country,  and  who  is,  in  the  higher  qualities  of  the  mind, 
so  far  in  advance  of  our  other  novelists,  should  have  become 
almost  inaccessible  to  the  public. 

It  has  been  the  custom  to  liken  Brown  to  Godwin.  But 
there  was  no  imitation,  no  second  hand  in  the  matter.  They 
were  congenial  natures,  and  whichever  had  come  first  might 
have  lent  an  impulse  to  the  other.  Either  mind  might  have 
been  conscious  of  the  possession  of  that  peculiar  vein  of  ore, 
without  thinking  of  working  it  for  the  mint  of  the  world,  till 
the  other,  led  by  accident,  or  overflow  of  feeling,  showed  him 
how  easy  it  was  to  put  the  reveries  of  his  solitary  hours  into 
words,  and  upon  paper,  for  the  benefit  of  his  fellow-men. 

"  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is." 

Such  a  man  as  Brown  or  Godwin  has  a  right  to  say  that. 
Their  mind  is  no  scanty,  turbid  rill,  rejoicing  to  be  daily  fed 
from  a  thousand  others,  or  from  the  clouds.  Its  plenteous 
source  rushes  from  a  high  mountain  between  bulwarks  of  stone. 
Its  course,  even  and  full,  keeps  ever  green  its  banks,  and 
affords  the  means  of  life  and  joy  to  a  million  gliding  shapes, 
that  fill  its  deep  waters,  and  twinkle  above  its  golden  sands. 

Life  and  Joy  !  Yes,  Joy  !  These  two  have  been  called 
the  dark  Masters,  because  they  disclose  the  twilight  recesses  of 

*  Ormond,  or  the  Secret  "Witness ;  Wieland,  or  the  Transformation  ;  hy 
Charles  Brockden  Brown. 

(83) 


84  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

the  human  heart.  Yet  the  gravest  page  in  the  history  of  such 
men  is  joy,  compared  with  the  mixed,  shallow,  uncertain  pleas 
ures  of  vulgar  minds.  Joy  !  because  they  were  all  alive,  and 
fulfilled  the  purposes  of  being.  No  sham,  no  imitation,  no  con 
vention  deformed  or  veiled  their  native  lineaments,  or  checked 
the  use  of  their  natural  force.  All  alive  themselves,  they  un 
derstood  that  there  is  no  happiness  without  truth,  no  perception 
of  it  without  real  life.  Unlike  most  men,  existence  was  to  them 
not  a  tissue  of  words  and  seemings,  but  a  substantial  possession. 

Born  Hegelians,  without  the  pretensions  of  science,  they 
sought  God  in  their  own  consciousness,  and  found  him.  The 
heart,  because  it  saw  itself  so  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made, 
did  not  disown  its  Maker.  With  the  highest  idea  of  the  dig 
nity,  power,  and  beauty  of  which  human  nature  is  capable, 
they  had  courage  to  see  by  what  an  oblique  course  it  pro 
ceeds,  yet  never  lose  faith  that  it  would  reach  its  destined 
aim.  Thus  their  darkest  disclosures  are  not  hobgoblin  shows, 
but  precious  revelations. 

Brown  is  great  as  ever  human  writer  was  in  showing  the 
self-sustaining  force  of  which  a  lonely  mind  is  capable.  He 
takes  one  person,  makes  him  brood  like  the  bee,  and  extract 
from  the  common  life  before  him  all  its  sweetness,  its  bitter 
ness,  and  its  nourishment. 

We  say  makes  him,  but  it  increases  our  own  interest  in 
Brown,  that,  a  prophet  in  this  respect  of  a  better  era,  he  has 
usually  placed  this  thinking,  royal  mind  in  the  body  of  a 
woman.  This  personage,  too,  is  always  feminine,  both  in  her 
character  and  circumstances,  but  a  conclusive  proof  that  the 
term  feminine  is  not  a  synonymefor  weak.  Constantia,  Clara 
Wieland,  have  loving  hearts,  graceful  and  plastic  natures,  but 
they  have  also  noble,  thinking  minds,  full  of  resource,  con 
stancy,  courage.  The  Marguerite  of  Godwin,  no  less,  is  all 
refinement  and  the  purest  tenderness ;  but  she  is  also  the  soul 
of  honor,  capable  of  deep  discernment,  and  of  acting  in  con 
formity  with  the  inferences  she  draws.  The  Man  of  Brown 


BKOWN  S    NOVELS.  85 

and  Godwin  has  not  eaten  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowl 
edge,  and  been  driven  to  sustain  himself  by  the  sweat  of  his 
brow  for  nothing,  but  has  learned  the  structure  and  laws  of 
things,  and  become  a  being,  natural,  benignant,  various,  and 
desirous  of  supplying  the  loss  of  innocence  by  the  attainment 
of  virtue.  So  his  Woman  need  not  be  quite  so  weak  as  Eve, 
the  slave  of  feeling  or  of  flattery ;  she  also  has  learned  to 
guide  her  helm  amid  the  storm  across  the  troubled  waters. 

The  horrors  which  mysteriously  beset  these  persons,  and 
against  which,  so  far  as  outward  facts  go,  they  often  strive  in 
vain,  are  but  a  representation  of  those  powers  permitted  to 
work  in  the  same  way  throughout  the  affairs  of  this  world. 
Their  demoniacal  attributes  only  represent  a  morbid  state  of 
the  intellect,  gone  to  excess  from  want  of  balance  with  the 
other  powers.  There  is  an  intellectual  as  well  as  a  physical 
drunkenness,  and  which,  no  less,  impels  to  crime.  Carwin, 
urged  on  to  use  his  ventriloquism  till  the  presence  of  such  a 
strange  agent  wakened  the  seeds  of  fanaticism  in  the  breast 
of  Wieland,  is  in  a  state  no  more  foreign  to  nature  than  that 
of  the  wretch  executed  last  week,  who  felt  himself  drawn  as 
by  a  spell  to  murder  his  victim,  because  he  had  thought  of 
her  money  and  the  pleasures  it  might  bring  him,  till  the  feel 
ing  possessed  his  brain  that  hurls  the  gamester  to  ruin.  The 
victims  of  such  agency  are  like  the  soldier  of  the  Rio  Grande, 
who,  both  legs  shot  off,  and  his  life-blood  rushing  out  with 
every  pulse,  replied  serenely  to  his  pitying  comrades,  that  "  he 
had  now  that  for  which  the  soldier  enlisted."  The  end  of  the 
drama  is  not  in  this  world,  and  the  fiction  which  rounds  off 
the  whole  to  harmony  and  felicity  before  the  curtain  falls, 
sins  against  truth,  and  deludes  the  reader.  The  Nelsons  of 
the  human  race  are  all  the  more  exposed  to  the  assaults  of 
Fate,  that  they  are  decorated  with  the  badges  of  well-earned 
glory.  Who  but  feels  as  they  fall  in  death,  or  rise  again  to 
a  mutilated  existence,  that  the  end  is  not  yet  ?  Who,  that 
thinks,  but  must  feel  that  the  recompense  is,  where  Brown 


86  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

places  it,  in  the  accumulation  of  mental  treasure,  in  the  severe 
assay  by  fire  that  leaves  the  gold  pure  to  be  used  some  time 
—  somewhere  ? 

Brown,  —  man  of  the  brooding  eye,  the  teeming  brain,  the 
deep  and  fervent  heart,  —  if  thy  country  prize  thee  not,  and 
had  almost  lost  thee  out  of  sight,  it  is  because  her  heart  is  made 
shallow  and  cold,  her  eye  dim,  by  the  pomp  of  circumstance, 
the  love  of  gross  outward  gain.  She  cannot  long  continue 
thus,  for  it  takes  a  great  deal  of  soul  to  keep  a  huge  body 
from  disease  and  dissolution.  As  there  is  more  soul,  thou 
wilt  be  more  sought ;  and  many  will  yet  sit  down  with  thy 
Constantia  to  the  meal  and  water  on  which  she  sustained 
her  full  and  thoughtful  existence,  who  could  not  endure  the 
ennui  of  aldermanic  dinners,  or  find  any  relish  in  the  im 
itation  of  French  cookery.  To-day  many  will  read  the 
words,  and  some  have  a  cup  large  enough  to  receive  the 
spirit,  before  it  is  lost  in  the  sand  on  which  their  feet  are 
planted. 

Brown's  high  standard  of  the  delights  of  intellectual  com 
munion  and  of  friendship,  correspond  with  the  fondest  hopes 
of  early  days.  But  in  the  relations  of  real  life,  at  present, 
there  is  rarely  more  than  one  of  the  parties  ready  for  such 
intercourse  as  he  describes.  On  the  one  side  there  will  be 
dryness,  want  of  perception,  or  variety,  a  stupidity  unable  to 
appreciate  life's  richest  boon  when  offered  to  its  grasp ;  and 
the  finer  nature  is  doomed  to  retrace  its  steps,  unhappy  as 
those  who,  having  force  to  raise  a  spirit,  cannot  retain  or 
make  it  substantial,  and  stretch  out  their  arms  only  to  bring 
them  back  empty  to  the  breast. 

We  were  glad  to  see  these  reprints,  but  sorry  to  see  them 
so  carelessly  done.  Under  the  cheap  system,  the  careless 
ness  in  printing  and  translating  grows  to  a  greater  excess  day 
by  day.  Please,  Public,  to  remonstrate ;  else  very  soon  all 
your  books  will  be  offered  for  two  shillings  apiece,  and  none 
of  them  in  a  fit  state  to  be  read. 


EDGAR  A.  POE.* 

MR.  POE  throws  down  the  gauntlet  in  his  preface  by  what 
he  says  of  "  the  paltry  compensations,  or  more  paltry  com 
mendations,  of  mankind."  Some  champion  might  be  expected 
to  start  up  from  the  "  somewhat  sizable  "  class  embraced,  or, 
more  properly  speaking,  boxed  on  the  ear,  by  this  defiance, 
who  might  try  whether  the  sting  of  Criticism  was  as  indiffer 
ent  to  this  knight  of  the  pen  as  he  professes  its  honey  to  be. 

"Were  there  such  a  champion,  gifted  with  acumen  to  dissect, 
and  a  swift-glancing  wit  to  enliven  the  operation,  he  could 
find  no  more  legitimate  subject,  no  fairer  game,  than  Mr.  Poe, 
who  has  wielded  the  weapons  of  criticism  without  relenting, 
whether  with  the  dagger  he  rent  and  tore  the  garment  in 
which  some  favored  Joseph  had  pranked  himself,  secure  of 
honor  in  the  sight  of  all  men,  or  whether  with  uplifted  tomahawk 
he  rushed  upon  the  new-born  children  of  some  hapless  genius, 
who  had  fancied,  and  persuaded  his  friends  to  fancy,  that  they 
were  beautiful,  and  worthy  a  long  and  honored  life.  A  large 
band  of  these  offended  dignitaries  and  aggrieved  parents  must 
be  on  the  watch  for  a  volume  of  "  Poems  by  Edgar  A.  Poe," 
ready  to  cut,  rend,  and  slash  in  turn,  and  hoping  to  see  his 
own  Raven  left  alone  to  prey  upon  the  slaughter  of  which  it 
is  the  herald. 

Such  joust  and  tournament  we  look  to  see,  and,  indeed, 
have  some  stake  in  the  matter,  so  far  as  we  have  friends  whose 
wrongs  cry  aloud  for  the  avenger.  Natheless  we  could  not 


*  The  Raven  and  other  Poems,  by  Edgar  A.  Poe,  1845. 

(87) 


88  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

take  part  in  the  melee,  except  to  join  the  crowd  of  lookers-on 
in  the  cry  "  heaven  speed  the  right !  " 

Early  we  read  that  fable  of  Apollo  who  rewarded  the  critic, 
who  had  painfully  winnowed  the  wheat,  —  with  the  chaff  for 
his  pains.  We  joined  the  gentle  Affirmative  School,  and  have 
confidence  that  if  we  indulge  ourselves  chiefly  with  the  appre 
ciation  of  good  qualities,  Time  will  take  care  of  the  faults.  For 
Time  holds  a  strainer  like  that  used  in  the  diamond  mines  —  have 
but  patience  and  the  water  and  gravel  will  all  pass  through, 
and  only  the  precious  stones  be  left.  Yet  we  are  not  blind 
to  the  uses  of  severe  criticism,  and  of  just  censure,  especially 
in  a  time  and  place  so  degraded  by  venal  and  indiscriminate 
praise  as  the  present.  That  unholy  alliance ;  that  shameless 

sham,  whose  motto  is, 

"  Caw  me 
And  I'll  caw  thee  ; " 

that  system  of  mutual  adulation  and  organized  puff  which 
was  carried  to  such  perfection  in  the  time,  and  may  be  seen 
drawn  to  the  life  in  the  correspondence,  of  Miss  Hannah 
More,  is  fully  represented  in  our  day  and  generation.  We 
see  that  it  meets  a  counter-agency,  from  the  league  of  Truth- 
tellers,  few,  but  each  of  them  mighty  as  Fingal  or  any  other 
hero  of  the  sort.  Let  such  tell  the  whole  truth,  as  well  as 
nothing  but  the  truth,  but  let  their  sternness  be  in  the  spirit 
of  Love.  Let  them  seek  to  understand  the  purpose  and  scope 
of  an  author,  his  capacity  as  well  as  his  fulfilments,  and  how 
his  faults  are  made  to  grow  by  the  same  sunshine  that  acts 
upon  his  virtues,  for  this  is  the  case  with  talents  no  less  than 
with  character.  The  rich  field  requires  frequent  and  careful 
weeding;  frequent,  lest  the  weeds  exhaust  the  soil;  care 
ful,  lest  the  flowers  and  grain  be  pulled  up  along  with  the 
weeds. 

It  has  often  been  our  lot  to  share  the  mistake  of  Gil 
Bias  with  regard  to  the  Archbishop.  We  have  taken  people 
at  their  word,  and  while  rejoicing  that  women  could  bear 


EDGAR  A.    POE.  89 

neglect  without  feeling  mean  pique,  and  that  authors,  rising 
above  self-love,  could  show  candor  about  their  works,  and 
magnanimously  meet  both  justice  and  injustice,  we  have  been 
rudely  awakened  from  our  dream,  and  found  that  chanticleer, 
who  crowed  so  bravely,  showed  himself  at  last  but  a  dunghill 
fowl.  Yet  Heaven  grant  we  never  become  too  worldly-wise 
thus  to  trust  a  generous  word,  and  we  surely  are  not  so  yet, 
for  we  believe  Mr.  Poe  to  be  sincere  when  he  says,  — 

"  In  defence  of  my  own  taste,  it  is  incumbent  upon  me  to 
say  that  I  think  nothing  in  this  volume  of  much  value  to  the 
public  or  very  creditable  to  myself.  Events  not  to  be  con 
trolled  have  prevented  me  from  making,  at  any  time,  any 
serious  effort,  in  what,  under  happier  circumstances,  would 
have  been  the  field  of  my  choice." 

We  believe  Mr.  Poe  to  be  sincere  in  this  declaration ;  if 
he  is,  we  respect  him ;  if  otherwise,  we  do  not.  Such  things 
should  never  be  said  unless  in  hearty  earnest.  If  in  earnest, 
they  are  honorable  pledges ;  if  not,  a  pitiful  fence  and  foil  of 
vanity.  Earnest  or  not,  the  words  are  thus  far  true ;  the  pro 
ductions  in  this  volume  indicate  a  power  to  do  something  far 
better.  With  the  exception  of  the  Raven,  which  seems  in 
tended  chiefly  to  show  the  writer's  artistic  skill,  and  is  in  its 
way  a  rare  and  finished  specimen,  they  are  all  fragments  — 
fyttes  upon  the  lyre,  almost  all  of  which  leave  a  something 
to  desire  or  demand.  This  is  not  the  case,  however,  with 
these  lines :  — 

To  ONE  IN  PARADISE. 

Thou  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 

For  which  my  soul  did  pine  — 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 

And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 
8* 


90  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah,  starry  Hope  !  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"  On !  on ! "  —  but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf!)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast ! 

For,  alas !  alas !  with  me 

The  light  of  life  is  o'er ! 

No  more  —  no  more  —  no  more 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar ! 

And  all  my  days  are  trances. 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  dark  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams  — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 

The  poems  breathe  a  passionate  sadness,  relieved  some 
times  by  touches  very  lovely  and  tender :  — 

"  Amid  the  earnest  woes 

That  crowd  around  my  earthly  path 

(Drear  path,  alas  !  where  grows 

Not  even  one  lonely  rose.")     *     *     * 


"  For  her,  the  fair  and  debonair,  that  now  so  lowly  lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair,  but  not  within  her  eyes  — 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair  —  the  death  upon  her  eyes." 


EDGAR   A.   POE.  91 

This  kind  of  beauty  is  especially  conspicuous,  even  rising 
into  dignity,  in  the  poem  called  the  Haunted  Palace. 

The  imagination  of  this  writer  rarely  expresses  itself  in 
pronounced  forms,  but  rather  in  a  sweep  of  images,  thronging 
and  distant  like  a  procession  of  moonlight  clouds  on  the 
horizon,  but  like  them  characteristic  and  harmonious  one  with 
another,  according  to  their  office. 

The  descriptive  power  is  greatest  when  it  takes  a  shape 
not  unlike  an  incantation,  as  in  the  first  part  of  the  Sleeper, 
where 

"  I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon  ; 
An  opiate  vapor,  dewy,  dim, 
Exhales  from  out  a  golden  rim, 
And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon  the  quiet  mountain  top, 
Steals  drowsily  and  musically 
Into  the  universal  valley." 

Why  universal  ?  —  "  resolve  me  that,  Master  Moth." 
And  farther  on,  "  the  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave." 
This  word  lolls,  often  made  use  of  in  these  poems,  presents 
a  vulgar  image  to  our  thought ;  we  know  not  how  it  is  to  that 
of  others. 

The  lines  which  follow,  about  the  open  window,  are  highly 
poetical.  So  is  the  Bridal  Ballad  in  its  power  of  suggest 
ing  a  whole  tribe  and  train  of  thoughts  and  pictures,  by  few 
and  simple  touches. 

The  poems  written  in  youth,  written,  indeed,  we  under 
stand,  in  childhood,  before  the  author  was  ten  years  old,  are 
a  great  psychological  curiosity.  Is  it  the  delirium  of  a  pre 
maturely  excited  brain  that  causes  such  a  rapture  of  words  ? 
What  is  to  be  gathered  from  seeing  the  future  so  fully  anti 
cipated  in  the  germ  ?  The  passions  are  not  unfrequently  jfe/tf 
in  their  full  shock,  if  not  in  their  intensity,  at  eight  or  nine 
years  old,  but  here  they  are  reflected  upon  :  — 


92  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

"  Sweet  was  their  death  —  with  them  to  die  was  rife 
With  the  last  ecstasy  of  satiate  life." 

The  scenes  from  Politian  are  done  with  clear,  sharp 
strokes  ;  the  power  is  rather  metaphysical  than  dramatic. 
We  must  repeat  what  we  have  heretofore  said,  that  we  could 
wish  to  see  Mr.  Poe  engaged  in  a  metaphysical  romance. 
He  needs  a  sustained  flight  and  far  range  to  show  what  his 
powers  really  are.  Let  us  have  from  him  the  analysis  of  the 
Passions,  with  their  appropriate  Fates ;  let  us  have  his  specu 
lations  clarified ;  let  him  intersperse  dialogue  or  poem,  as  the 
occasion  prompts,  and  give  us  something  really  good  and 
strong,  firmly  wrought,  and  fairly  blazoned. 


ALFIERI  AND   CELLINI.* 

THESE  two  publications  have  come  to  hand  during  the  last 
month  —  a  cheering  gleam  upon  the  winter  of  our  discontent, 
as  we  saw  the  flood  of  bad  translations  of  worse  books  which 
swelled  upon  the  country. 

We  love  our  country  well.  The  many  false  deeds  and  low 
thoughts ;  the  devotion  to  interest ;  the  forgetfulness  of  prin 
ciple  ;  the  indifference  to  high  and  noble  sentiment,  which 
have,  in  so  many  ways,  darkened  her  history  for  some  years 
back,  have  not  made  us  despair  of  her  yet  fulfilling  the  great 
destiny  whose  promise  rose,  like  a  star,  only  some  half  a  cen 
tury  ago  upon  the  hopes  of  the  world. 

Should  that  star  be  forsaken  by  its  angel,  and  those  hopes 
set  finally  in  clouds  of  shame,  the  church  which  we  had  built 
out  of  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  time  must  fall  to  the  ground. 
This  church  seemed  a  model  of  divine  art.  It  contained  a 
labyrinth  which,  when  threaded  by  aid  of  the  clew  of  Faith, 
presented,  re-viewed  from  its  centre,  the  most  admirable  har 
mony  and  depth  of  meaning  in  its  design,  and  comprised  in 
its  decorations  all  the  symbols  of  permanent  interest  of  which 
the  mind  of  man  has  made  use  for  the  benefit  of  man.  Such 
was  to  be  our  church,  a  church  not  made  with  hands,  catholic, 
universal,  all  whose  stones  should  be  living  stones,  its  officials 
the  cherubim  of  Love  and  Knowledge,  its  worship  wiser  and 
purer  action  than  has  before  been  known  to  men.  To  such 
a  church  men  do  indeed  constitute  the  state,  and  men  indeed 

*  The  Autobiography  of  Alfieri,  translated  by  C.  E.  Lester.    Memoirs  of 
Benvenuto  Cellini,  translated  by  Roscoe. 

(93) 


94  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

we  hoped  from  the  American  church  and  state,  men  so  truly 
human  that  they  could  not  live  while  those  made  in  their  own 
likeness  were  bound  down  to  the  condition  of  brutes. 

Should  such  hopes  be  baffled,  should  such  a  church  fall  in 
the  building,  such  a  state  find  no  realization  except  to  the 
eve  of  the  poet,  God  would  still  be  in  the  world,  and  surely 
guide  each  bird,  that  can  be  patient,  on  the  wing  to  its  home 
at  last.  But  expectations  so  noble,  which  find  so  broad  a 
basis  in  the  past,  which  link  it  so  harmoniously  with  the 
future,  cannot  lightly  be  abandoned.  The  same  Power  leads 
by  a  pillar  of  cloud  as  by  a  pillar  of  fire  —  the  Power  that 
deemed  even  Moses  worthy  only  of  a  distant  view  of  the 
Promised  Land. 

And  to  those  who  cherish  such  expectations  rational  edu 
cation,  considered  in  various  ways  and  bearings,  must  be  the 
one  great  topic  of  interest;  an  enterprise  in  which  the  hum 
blest  service  is  precious  and  honorable  to  any  who  can  in 
spire  its  soul.  Our  thoughts  anticipate  with  eager  foresight 
the  race  that  may  grow  up  from  this  amalgamation  of  all 
races  of  the  world  which  our  situation  induces.  It  was  the 
pride  and  greatness  of  ancient  nations  to  keep  their  blood 
unmixed ;  but  it  must  be  ours  to  be  willing  to  mingle,  to 
accept  in  a  generous  spirit  what  each  clime  and  race  has  to 
offer  us. 

It  is,  indeed,  the  case  that  much  diseased  substance  is 
offered  to  form  this  new  body ;  and  if  there  be  not  in  our 
selves  a  nucleus,  a  heart  offeree  and  purity  to  assimilate  these 
strange  and  various  materials  into  a  very  high  form  of  or 
ganic  life,  they  must  needs  induce  one  distorted,  corrupt,  and 
degraded  beyond  the  example  of  other  times  and  places. 
There  will  be  no  medium  about  it.  Our  grand  scene  of 
action  demands  grandeur  and  purity ;  lacking  these,  one  must 
suffer  from  so  base  failure  in  proportion  to  the  success  that 
should  have  been. 

It  would  be  the  worthiest  occupation  of  mind  to  ascertain 


ALFIERI   AND    CELLINI.  95 

the  conditions  propitious  for  this  meeting  of  the  nations  in 
their  new  home,  and  to  provide  preventions  for  obvious  dan 
gers  that  attend  it.  It  would  be  occupation  for  which  the 
broadest  and  deepest  knowledge  of  human  nature  in  its  men 
tal,  moral,  and  bodily  relations,  the  noblest  freedom  from 
prejudice,  with  the  finest  discrimination  as  to  differences  and 
relation^,  directed  and  enlightened  by  a  prophetic  sense  as  to 
what  Man  is  designed  by  God  to  become,  would  all  be  needed 
to  fit  the  thinker.  Yet  some  portion  of  these  qualities,  or  of 
some  of  these  qualities,  if  accompanied  by  earnestness  and 
aspiration,  may  enable  any  one  to  offer  useful  suggestions. 
The  mass  of  ignorance  and  selfishness  is  such,  that  no  grain 
of  leaven  must  be  despised. 

And  as  the  men  of  all  countries  come  hither  to  find  a 
home,  and  become  parts  of  a  new  life,  so  do  the  books  of  all 
countries  gravitate  towards  this  new  centre.  Copious  infu 
sions  from  all  quarters  mingle  daily  with  the  new  thought 
which  is  to  grow  into  American  mind,  and  develop  American 
literature. 

As  every  ship  brings  us  foreign  teachers,  a  knowledge  of 
living  contemporary  tongues  must  in  the  course  of  fifty  years 
become  the  commonest  attainment.  There  exists  no  doubt 
in  the  minds  of  those  who  can  judge,  that  the  German, 
French,  Italian,  Spanish,  and  Portuguese  tongues  might,  by 
familiar  instruction  and  an  intelligent  method,  be  taught  with 
perfect  ease  during  the  years  of  childhood,  so  that  the  child 
would  have  as  distinct  a  sense  of  their  several  natures,  and 
nearly  as  much  expertness  in  their  use,  as  in  his  own.  The 
higher  uses  of  such  knowledge  can,  of  course,  be  expected 
only  in  a  more  advanced  state  of  the  faculties  ;  but  it  is  pity 
that  the  acquaintance  with  the  medium  of  thought  should  be 
deferred  to  a  period  when  the  mind  is  sufficiently  grown  to 
bend  its  chief  attention  on  the  thoughts  themselves.  Much 
of  the  most  precious  part  of  short  human  lives  is  now  wasted 
from  an  ignorance  of  what  might  easily  be  done  for  children, 


96  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

and  without  taking  from  them  the  time  they  need  for  common 
life,  play,  and  bodily  growth,  more  than  at  present. 

Meanwhile  the  English  begins  to  vie  with  the  German  and 
French  literature  in  the  number,  though  not  in  the  goodness, 
of  the  translations  from  other  languages.  The  indefatigable 
Germans  can  translate,  and  do  other  things  too  ;  so  that  gen 
iuses  often  there  apply  themselves  to  the  work  as  an  amuse 
ment  :  even  the  all-employed  Goethe  has  translated  one  of 
the  books  before  us,  (Memoirs  of  Cellini.)  But  in  English 
we  know  but  of  one,  Coleridge's  Wallenstein,  where  the 
reader  will  feel  the  electric  current  undiminished  by  the 
medium  through  which  it  comes  to  him.  And  then  the  prof 
ligate  abuse  of  the  power  of  translation  has  been  unparal 
leled,  whether  in  the  choice  of  books  or  the  carelessness  in 
disguising  those  that  were  good  in  a  hideous  mask.  No 
falsehood  can  be  worse  than  this  of  deforming  the  expression 
of  a  great  man's  thoughts,  of  corrupting  that  form  which  he 
has  watched,  and  toiled  and  suffered  to  make  beautiful  and 
true.  We  know  no  falsehood  that  should  call  a  more  painful 
blush  to  the  cheek  of  one  engaged  in  it. 

We  have  no  narrowness  in  our  view  of  the  contents  of 
such  books.  We  are  not  afraid  of  new  standards  and  new 
examples.  Only  give  enough  of  them,  variety  enough,  and 
from  well-intentioned,  generous  minds.  America  can  choose 
what  she  wants,  if  she  has  sufficient  range  of  choice ;  and  if 
there  is  any  real  reason,  any  deep  root  in  the  tastes  and  opin 
ions  she  holds  at  present,  she  will  not  lightly  yield  them. 
Only  give  her  what  is  good  of  its  kind.  Her  hope  is  not  in 
ignorance,  but  in  knowledge.  We  are,  indeed,  very  fond  of 
range,  and  if  there  is  check,  there  should  be  countercheck ; 
and  in  this  view  we  are  delighted  to  see  these  great  Italians 
domesticated  here.  We  have  had  somewhat  too  much  of  the 
French  and  Germans  of  late.  We  value  unchangeably  our 
sparkling  and  rapid  French  friend  ;  still  more  the  searching, 
honest,  and,  in  highest  sense,  visionary  German  genius.  But 


ALFIERI   AND    CELLINI.  97 

there  is  not  on  earth,  and,  we  dare  to  say  it,  will  not  be  again, 
genius  like  that  of  Italy,  or  that  can  compare  with  it,  in  its 
own  way. 

Italy  and  Greece  were  alike  in  this  ;  those  sunny  skies 
ripened  their  fruits  perfectly.  The  oil  and  honey  of  Greece, 
the  wine  of  Italy,  not  only  suggest,  but  satisfy.  There  we 
find  fulfilment,  elsewhere  great  achievement  only. 

O,  acute,  cautious,  calculating  Yankee ;  O,  graceful,  witty, 
hot-blooded,  flimsy  Southron  ;  and  thou,  man  of  the  West, 
going  ahead  too  fast  to  pick  up  a  thought  or  leave  a  flower 
upon  thy  path,  —  look  at  these  men  with  their  great  fiery  pas 
sions,  but  will  and  intellect  still  greater  and  stronger,  per 
fectly  sincere,  from  a  contempt  of  falsehood.  If  they  had 
acted  wrong,  they  said  and  felt  that  they  had,  and  that  it  was 
base  and  hateful  in  them.  They  were  sagacious,  as  children 
are,  not  from  calculation,  but  because  the  fine  instincts  of 
nature  were  unspoiled  in  them.  I  speak  now  of  Alfieri  and 
Cellini.  Dante  had  all  their  instinctive  greatness  and  deep- 
seated  fire,  with  the  reflective  and  creative  faculties  besides, 
to  an  extent  of  which  they  never  dreamed. 

He  who  reads  these  biographies  may  take  them  from  sev 
eral  points  of  view.  As  pictures  of  manners,  as  sincere  tran 
scripts  of  the  men  and  their  times,  they  are  not  and  could  not 
be  surpassed.  That  truth  which  Rousseau  sought  so  pain 
fully  and  vainly  by  self-brooding,  subtle  analysis,  they  at 
tained  without  an  effort.  Why  they  felt  they  cared  little,  but 
what  they  felt  they  surely  knew  ;  and  where  a  fly  or  worm 
has  injured  the  peach,  its  passage  is  exactly  marked,  so  that 
you  are  sure  the  rest  is  fair  and  sound.  Both  as  physiologi 
cal  and  psychical  histories,  they  are  full  of  instruction.  In 
Alfieri,  especially,  the  nervous  disease  generated  in  the  frame 
by  any  uncongenial  tension  of  the  brain,  the  periodical  crises 
in  his  health,  the  manner  in  which  his  accesses  of  passion 
came  upon  him,  afford  infinite  suggestion  to  one  who  has  an 
eye  for  the  circumstances  which  fashion  the  destiny  of  man. 
9 


98  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

Let  the  physician  compare  the  furies  of  Alfieri  with  the  silent 
rages  of  Byron,  and  give  the  mother  and  pedagogue  the  light 
in  which  they  are  now  wholly  wanting,  showing  how  to  treat 
such  noble  plants  in  the  early  stages  of  growth.  We  think 
the  "  hated  cap  "  would  not  be  put  a  second  time  on  the  head 
so  easily  diseased. 

The  biography  of  Cellini,  it  is  commonly  said,  is  more 
interesting  than  any  romance.  It  is  a  romance,  with  the 
character  of  the  hero  fully  brought  out.  Cellini  lived  in  all 
the  fulness  of  inward  vigor,  all  the  variety  of  outward  adven 
ture,  and  passed  through  all  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac,  in  his 
circling  course,  occasionally  raising  a  little  vapor  from  the 
art  magic.  He  was  really  the  Orlando  Furioso  turned  Gold 
smith,  and  Angelicas  and  all  the  Peers  of  France  joined  in 
the  show.  However,  he  never  lived  deeply  ;  he  had  not 
time  ;  the  creative  energy  turned  outward  too  easily,  and 
took  those  forms  that  still  enchant  the  mind  of  Europe. 
Alfieri  was  very  different  in  this.  He  was  like  the  root  of 
some  splendid  southern  plant,  buried  beneath  a  heap  of 
rubbish.  Above  him  was  a  glorious  sky,  fit  to  develop  his 
form  and  excite  his  colors ;  but  he  was  compelled  to  a  long 
and  terrible  struggle  to  get  up  where  he  could  be  free  to 
receive  its  influence.  Institutions,  language,  family,  modes 
of  education,  —  all  were  unfit  for  him  ;  and  perhaps  no  man 
was  ever  called  to  such  efforts,  after  he  had  reached  manly 
age,  to  unmake  and  remake  himself  before  he  could  become 
what  his  inward  aspiration  craved.  All  this  deepened  his 
nature,  and  it  was  deep.  It  is  his  great  force  of  will  and  the 
compression  of  Nature  within  its  iron  grasp,  where  Nature 
was  so  powerful  and  impulsive,  that  constitutes  the  charm  of 
his  writings.  It  is  the  man  Alfieri  who  moves,  nay,  over 
powers  us,  and  not  his  writings,  which  have  no  flow  nor 
plastic  beauty.  But  we  feel  the  vital  dynamics,  and  imagine 
it  all. 

By  us  Americans,  if  ever  such  we  really  are  to  be,  Alfieri 


ALFIEEI  AND    CELLINI.  99 

should  be  held  sacred  as  a  godfather  and  holy  light.  He 
was  a  harbinger  of  what  most  gives  this  time  its  char 
acter  and  value.  He  was  the  friend  of  liberty,  the  friend 
of  man,  in  the  sense  that  Burns  was  —  of  the  native  no 
bleness  of  man.  Soiled  and  degraded  men  he  hated.  He 
was,  indeed,  a  man  of  pitiless  hatred  as  of  boundless  love, 
and  he  had  bitter  prejudices  too,  but  they  were  from  an 
tipathies  too  strongly  intertwined  with  his  sympathies  for 
any  hand  less  powerful  than  that  of  Death  to  rend  them 
away. 

But  our  space  does  not  permit  us  to  do  any  justice  to  such 
a  life  as  Alfieri's.  Let  others  read  it,  not  from  their  habitual, 
but  an  eternal  point  of  view,  and  they  cannot  mistake  its 
purport.  Some  will  be  most  touched  by  the  storms  of  his 
youth,  others  by  the  exploits  and  conquests  of  his  later 
years ;  but  all  will  find  him,  in  the  words  of  his  friend 
Casella,  "  sculptured  just  as  he  was,  lofty,  strange,  and  ex 
treme,  not  only  in  his  natural  characteristics,  but  in  every 
work  that  did  not  seem  to  him  unworthy  of  his  generous 
affections.  And  where  he  went  too  far,  it  is  easy  to  per 
ceive  his  excesses  always  flowed  from  some  praiseworthy 
sentiment." 

Among  a  crowd  of  thoughts  suggested  to  the  mind  by  re- 
perusal  of  this  book,  to  us  a  friend  of  many  years  standing, 
we  hastily  note  the  following  :  — 

Alfieri  knew  how  to  be  a  friend,  and  had  friends  such  as 
his  masculine  and  uncompromising  temper  fitted  him  to  en 
dure  and  keep.  He  had  even  two  or  three  of  these  noble 
friends.  He  was  a  perfect  lover  in  delicacy  of  sentiment,  in 
devotion,  in  a  desire  for  constancy,  in  a  high  ideal,  growing 
always  higher,  and  he  was,  at  last,  happy  in  love.  Many 
geniuses  have  spoken  worthily  of  women  in  their  works,  but 
he  speaks  of  woman  as  she  wishes  to  be  spoken  of,  and  de 
clares  that  he  met  the  desire  of  his  soul  realized  in  life.  This, 
almost  alone,  is  an  instance  where  a  great  nature  was  perma- 


100  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

nently  satisfied,  and  the  claims  of  man  and  woman  equally 
met,  where  one  of  the  parties  had  the  impatient  fire  of  genius. 
His  testimony  on  this  subject  is  of  so  rare  a  sort,  we  must 
copy  it :  — 

"  My  fourth  and  last  passion,  fortunately  for  me,  showed 
itself  by  symptoms  entirely  different  from  the  three  first.  In 
the  former,  my  intellect  had  felt  little  of  the  fires  of  passion  ; 
but  now  my  heart  and  my  genius  were  both  equally  kindled, 
and  if  my  passion  was  less  impetuous,  it  became  more  pro 
found  and  lasting.  Such  was  the  flame  which  by  degrees 
absorbed  every  aifection  and  thought  of  my  being,  and  it  will 
never  fade  away  except  with  my  life.  Two  months  satisfied 
me  that  I  had  now  found  the  true  woman ;  for,  instead  of 
encountering  in  her,  as  in  all  common  women,  an  obstacle  to 
literary  glory,  a  hinderance  to  useful  occupations,  and  a  damper 
to  thought,  she  proved  a  high  stimulus,  a  pure  solace,  and  an 
alluring  example  to  every  beautiful  work.  Prizing  a  treas 
ure  so  rare,  I  gave  myself  away  to  her  irrevocably.  And 
I  certainly  erred  not.  More  than  twelve  years  have  passed, 
and  while  I  am  writing  this  chit-chat,  having  reached  that 
calm  season  when  passion  loses  its  blandishments,  I  cherish 
her  more  tenderly  than  ever ;  and  I  love  her  just  in  propor 
tion  as  glide  from  her  in  the  lapse  of  time  those  little-es 
teemed  toll-gatherers  of  departing  beauty.  In  her  my  soul 
is  exalted,  softened,  and  made  better  day  by  day ;  and  I 
will  dare  to  say  and  believe  she  has  found  in  me  support 
and  consolation." 

We  have  spoken  of  the  peculiarities  in  Alfieri's  physical 
condition.  These  naturally  led  him  to  seek  solace  in  violent 
exercise ;  and  as  in  the  case  of  Beckford  and  Byron,  horses 
were  his  best  friends  in  the  hour  of  danger.  This  sort  of 
man  is  the  modern  Achilles,  "the  tamer  of  horses."  In  what 
degree  the  health  of  Alfieri  was  improved,  and  his  sympa 
thies  awakened  by  the  society  and  care  of  these  noble  ani 
mals,  is  very  evident.  Almost  all  persons,  perhaps  all  that 


ALFIERI   AND    CELLINI.  101 

> 

are  in  a  natural  state,  need  to  stand  in  patriarchal  relations 
with  the  animals  most  correspondent  with  their  character. 
We  have  the  highest  respect  for  this  instinct  and  sincere 
belief  in  the  good  it  brings ;  if  understood,  it  would  be 
cherished,  not  ridiculed. 
9* 


ITALY.  — GARY'S   DANTE. 

TRANSLATING  Dante  is  indeed  a  labor  of  love.  It  is  one 
in  which  even  a  moderate  degree  of  success  is  impossible. 
No  great  Poet  can  be  well  translated.  The  form  of  his 
thought  is  inseparable  from  his  thought.  The  births  of  his 
genius  are  perfect  beings :  body  and  soul  are  in  such  perfect 
harmony  that  you  cannot  at  all  alter  the  one  without  veiling 
the  other.  The  variation  in  cadence  and  modulation,  even 
where  the  words  are  exactly  rendered,  takes  not  only  from 
the  form  of  the  thought,  but  from  the  thought  itself,  its  most 
delicate  charm.  Translations  come  to  us  as  a  message  to  the 
lover  from  the  lady  of  his  love  through  the  lips  of  a  confi 
dante  or  menial  —  we  are  obliged  to  imagine  what  was  most 
vital  in  the  utterance. 

These  difficulties,  always  insuperable,  are  accumulated  a 
hundred-fold  in  the  case  of  Dante,  both  by  the  extraordinary 
depth  and  subtlety  of  his  thought,  and  his  no  less  extraordinary 
power  of  concentrating  its  expression,  till  every  verse  is  like 
a  blade  of  thoroughly  tempered  steel.  You  might  as  well 
attempt  to  translate  a  glance  of  fire  from  the  human  eye  into 
any  other  language  —  even  music  cannot  do  that. 

We  think,  then,  that  the  use  of  Gary's  translation,  or  any 
other,  can  never  be  to  diffuse  a  knowledge  of  Dante.  This  is 
not  in  its  nature  diffusible ;  he  is  one  of  those  to  whom  others 
must  draw  near  ;  he  cannot  be  brought  to  them.  He  has  no 
superficial  charm  to  cheat  the  reader  into  a  belief  that  he 
knows  him,  without  entrance  into  the  same  sphere. 

These  translations  can  be  of  use  only  to  the  translators,  as  a 
means  of  deliberate  study  of  the  original,  or  to  others  who 

(102) 


ITALY.  —  GARY'S  DANTE.  103 

are  studying  the  original,  and  wish  to  compare  their  own  ver 
sion  of  doubtful  passages  with  that  of  an  older  disciple,  highly 
qualified,  both  by  devotion  and  mental  development,  for  the 
study. 

We  must  say  a  few  words  as  to  the  pedantic  folly  with 
which  this  study  has  been  prosecuted  in  this  country,  and,  we 
believe,  in  England.  Not  only  the  tragedies  of  Alfieri  and 
the  Faust  of  Goethe,  but  the  Divina  Commedia  of  Dante,  —  a 
work  which  it  is  not  probable  there  are  upon  earth,  at  any 
one  time,  a  hundred  minds  able  to  appreciate, — are  turned  into 
school  books  for  little  girls  who  have  just  left  their  hoops  and 
dolls,  and  boys  whose  highest  ambition  it  is  to  ride  a  horse 
that  will  run  away,  and  brave  the  tutor  in  a  college  frolic. 

This  is  done  from  the  idea  that,  in  order  to  get  acquainted 
with  a  foreign  language,  the  student  must  read  books  that  have 
attained  the  dignity  of  classics,  and  also  which  are  "  hard." 
Hard  indeed  it  must  be  for  the  Muses  to  see  their  lyres  turned 
into  gridirons  for  the  preparation  of  a  school-girl's  lunch; 
harder  still  for  the  younglings  to  be  called  to  chew  and  digest 
thunderbolts,  in  lieu  of  their  natural  bread  and  butter. 

Are  there  not  "  classics  "  enough  which  would  not  suffer  by 
being  put  to  such  uses  ?  In  Greek,  Homer  is  a  book  for  a 
boy ;  must  you  give  him  Plato  because  it  is  harder  ?  Is  there 
no  choice  among  the  Latins  ?  Are  all  who  wrote  in  the  Latin 
tongue  equally  fit  for  the  appreciation  of  sixteen  Yankee 
years  ?  In  Italian,  have  you  not  Tasso,  Ariosto,  and  other 
writers  who  have  really  a  great  deal  that  the  immature  mind 
can  enjoy,  without  choking  it  with  the  stern  politics  of  Alfieri, 
or  piling  upon  a  brain  still  soft  the  mountainous  meanings  of 
Dante  ?  Indeed,  they  are  saved  from  suffering  by  the  per 
fect  ignorance  of  all  meaning  in  which  they  leave  these  great 
authors,  fancying,  to  their  life-long  misfortune,  that  they  have 
read  them.  I  have  been  reminded,  by  the  remarks  of  my 
young  friends  on  these  subjects,  of  the  Irish  peasant,  who, 
having  been  educated  on  a  book  prepared  for  his  use,  called 


104  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

"  Reading  made  easy,"  blesses  through  life  the  kindness  that 
taught  him  his  "  Radamadasy ; "  and  of  the  child  who,  hear 
ing  her  father  quote  Horace,  observed  she  "  thought  Latin 
was  even  sillier  than  French." 

No  less  pedantic  is  the  style  in  which  the  grown-up,  in 
stature  at  least,  undertake  to  become  acquainted  with  Dante. 
They  get  the  best  Italian  Dictionary,  all  the  notes  they  can 
find,  amounting  in  themselves  to  a  library,  for  his  country 
men  have  not  been  less  external  and  benighted  in  their  way 
of  regarding  him.  Painfully  they  study  through  the  book, 
seeking  with  anxious  attention  to  know  who  Signer  This  is, 
and  who  was  the  cousin  of  Signora  That,  and  whether  any  deep 
papal  or  anti-papal  meaning  was  couched  by  Dante  under 
the  remark  that  Such-a-one  wore  a  great-coat.  A  mind, 
whose  small  chambers  look  yet  smaller  by  being  crowded 
with  furniture  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  bought  by  labor, 
not  received  from  inheritance  or  won  by  love,  asserts  that  he 
must  understand  Dante  well,  better  than  any  other  person 
probably,  because  he  has  studied  him  through  in  this  way 
thirty  or  forty  times.  As  well  declare  you  have  a  better  ap 
preciation  of  Shakspeare  than  any  one  else  because  you  have 
identified  the  birthplace  of  Dame  Quickly,  or  ascertained  the 
churchyard  where  the  ghost  of  the  royal  Dane  hid  from  the 
sight  of  that  far  more  celestial  spirit,  his  son. 

0,  painstaking  friends !  Shut  your  books,  clear  your 
minds  from  artificial  nonsense,  and  feel  that  only  by  spirit  can 
spirit  be  discerned.  Dante,  like  each  other  great  one,  took 
the  stuff  that  lay  around  him,  and  wove  it  into  a  garment  of 
light.  It  is  not  by  ravelling  that  you  will  best  appreciate  its 
tissue  or  design.  It  is  not  by  studying  out  the  petty  strifes  or 
external  relations  of  his  time,  that  you  can  become  acquainted 
with  the  thought  of  Dante.  To  him  these  things  were  only 
soil  in  which  to  plant  himself  —  figures  by  which  to  drama 
tize  and  evolve  his  ideas.  Would  you  learn  him,  go  listen  in 
the  forest  of  human  passions  to  all  the  terrible  voices  he 


105 

heard  with  a  tormented  but  never-to-be-deafened  ear;  go 
down  into  the  hells,  where  each  excess  that  mars  the  harmony 
of  nature  is  punished  by  the  sinner  finding  no  food  except 
from  his  own  harvest ;  pass  through  the  purgatories  of  specu 
lation,  of  struggling  hope,  and  faith,  never  quite  quenched, 
but  smouldering  often  and  long  beneath  the  ashes.  Soar  if 
thou  canst,  but  if  thou  canst  not,  clear  thine  eye  to  see  this 
great  eagle  soar  into  the  higher  region  where  forms  arrange 
themselves  for  stellar  dance  and  spheral  melody,  —  and 
thought,  with  costly-accelerated  motion,  raises  itself  a  spiral 
which  can  only  end  in  the  heart  of  the  Supreme. 

He  who  finds  in  himself  no  fitness  to  study  Dante  in  this 
way,  should  regard  himself  as  in  the  position  of  a  candidate 
for  the  ancient  mysteries,  when  rejected  as  unfit  for  initiation. 
He  should  seek  in  other  ways  to  purify,  expand,  and  strengthen 
his  being,  and,  when  he  feels  that  he  is  nobler  and  stronger, 
return  and  try  again  whether  he  is  "  grown  up  to  it,"  as  the 
Germans  say. 

"  The  difficulty  is  in  the  thoughts ; "  and  this  cannot  be 
obviated  by  the  most  minute  acquaintance  with  the  history  of 
the  times.  Comparison  of  one  edition  with  another  is  of  use, 
as  a  guard  against  obstructions  through  mistake.  Still  more 
useful  will  be  the  method  recommended  by  Mr.  Gary,  of 
comparing  the  Poet  with  himself;  this  belongs  to  the  intel 
lectual  method,  and  is  the  way  in  which  to  study  our  intel 
lectual  friend. 

The  versions  of  Gary  and  Lyell  will  be  found  of  use  to  the 
student,  if  he  wants  to  compare  his  ideas  with  those  of  accom 
plished  fellow-students.  The  poems  in  the  London  book 
would  aid  much  in  a  full  appreciation  of  the  comedy ;  they 
ought  to  be  read  in  the  original,  but  copies  are  not  easily  to 
be  met  here,  unless  in  the  great  libraries.  The  Vita  Nuova 
is  the  noblest  expression  extant  of  the  inward  life  of  Love, 
the  best  preface  and  comment  to  every  thing  else  that 
Dante  did. 


106  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

"Pis  pity  that  the  designs  of  Flaxman  are  so  poorly  repro 
duced  in  this  American  book.  It  would  have  been  far  better 
to  have  had  it  a  little  dearer,  and  thus  better  done.  The 
designs  of  Flaxman  were  really  a  noble  comment  upon  Dante, 
and  might  help  to  interpret  him ;  and  we  are  sorry  that  those 
who  can  see  only  a  few  of  them  should  see  them  so  imper 
fectly.  But  in  some,  as  in  that  of  the  meeting  with  Farinata, 
the  expression  cannot  be  destroyed  while  one  line  of  the 
original  remained.  The  "  lost  portrait "  we  do  not  like  as 
preface  to  "  La  Divina  Comedia."  To  that  belongs  our 
accustomed  object  of  reverence,  the  head  of  Dante,  such  as 
the  Florentine  women  saw  him,  when  they  thought  his  hair 
and  beard  were  still  singed,  his  face  dark  and  sublime  with 
what  he  had  seen  below. 

Prefixed  to  the  other  book  is  a  head  "  from  a  cast  taken 
after  death  at  Ravenna,  A.  D.  1321."  It  has  the  grandeur 
which  death  sometimes  puts  on ;  the  fulness  of  past  life  is 
there,  but  made  sacred  in  Eternity.  It  is  also  the  only  front 
view  of  Dante  we  have  seen.  It  is  not  unworthy  to  mark 
the  point 

"  When  vigor  failed  the  towering  fantasy, 
But  yet  the  will  rolled  onward,  like  a  wheel 
In  even  motion  by  the  love  impelled 
That  moves  the  sun  in  heaven,  and  all  the  stars." 

We  ought  to  say,  in  behalf  of  this  publication,  that  whoso 
ever  wants  Gary's  version  will  rejoice,  at  last,  as  do  we,  to 
possess  it  in' so  fair  and  legible  guise. 

Before  leaving  the  Italians,  we  must  mourn  over  the  mis 
prints  of  our  homages  to  the  great  tragedian  in  the  preced 
ing  review.  Our  manuscripts  being  as  illegible  as  if  we  were 
a  great  genius,  we  never  complain  of  these  errata,  except 
when  we  are  made  to  reverse  our  meaning  on  some  vital 
point.  We  did  not  say  that  Alfieri  was  perfect  in  person, 


107 

nor  sundry  other  things  that  are  there ;  but  we  do  mourn  at 
seeming  to  say  of  our  friends,  "  Why  they  felt  they  care  little, 
but  what  they  felt  they  scarcely  knew,"  when  in  fact  we 
asserted,  "  what  they  felt  they  surely  knew." 

In  the  article  on  the  Celestial  Empire  we  had  made  this 
assertion  of  the  Chinese  music :  "  Like  their  poetry,  the  music 
is  of  the  narrowest  monotony ; "  in  place  of  which  stands  this 
assertion  :  "  Like  true  poetry,  their  music  is  of  the  narrowest 
monotony."  But  we  trust  the  most  careless  reader  would  not 
think  the  merely  human  mind  capable  of  so  original  a  remark, 
and  will  put  this  blasphemy  to  account  of  that  little  demon 
who  has  so  much  to  answer  for  in  the  sufferings  of  poor 
writers  before  they  can  get  their  thoughts  to  the  eyes  of  their 
fellow-creatures,  in  print,  that  there  seems  scarcely  a  chance 
of  his  being  redeemed  as  long  as  there  is  one  author  in  exist 
ence  to  accuse  him.* 

[*  Although  the  errors  here  specially  referred  to  by  my  sister  have  been 
corrected  in  this  volume,  I  let  her  statement  remain  as  explanation  of  any 
other  errors  which  may  possibly  have  crept  into  type,  in  this  volume,  through 
the  illegibility  of  some  of  her  manuscripts  from  which  I  have  been  com 
pelled  to  copy  for  this  work.  —  ED.! 


AMERICAN   FACTS. 

SUCH  is  the  title  of  a  volume  just  issued  from  the  press ;  a 
grand  title,  which  suggests  the  epic  poet  or  the  philosopher. 
The  purpose  of  the  work,  however,  is  modest.  It  is  merely  a 
compilation,  from  which  those  who  have  lived  at  some  distance 
from  the  great  highway  may  get  answers  to  their  questions, 
as  to  events  and  circumstances  which  may  have  escaped  them. 
It  is  one  of  those  books  which  will  be  valued  in  the  back 
woods. 

It  would  be  a  great  book  indeed,  and  one  that  would  require 
the  eye  and  heart  of  a  great  man,  —  great  as  a  judge,  great  as 
a  seer,  and  great  as  a  prophet,  —  that  should  select  for  us  and 
present  in  harmonious  outline  the  true  American  facts.  To 
choose  the  right  point  of  view  supposes  command  of  the  field. 

Such  a  man  must  be  attentive,  a  quiet  observer  of  the 
slighter  signs  of  growth.  But  he  must  not  be  one  to  dwell 
superstitiously  on  details,  nor  one  to  hasten  to  conclusions. 
He  must  have  the  eye  of  the  eagle,  the  courage  of  the  lion, 
the  patience  of  the  worm,  and  faith  such  as  is  the  prerogative 
of  man  alone,  and  of  man  in  the  highest  phase  of  his  culture. 

We  doubt  not  the  destiny  of  our  country  —  that  she  is  to 
accomplish  great  things  for  human  nature,  and  be  the  mother 
of  a  nobler  race  than  the  world  has  yet  known.  But  she  has 
been  so  false  to  the  scheme  made  out  at  her  nativity,  that  it  is 
now  hard  to  say  which  way  that  destiny  points.  We  can 
hardly  exhibit  the  true  American  facts  without  some  idea  of 
the  real  character  of  America.  Only  one  thing  seems  clear  — 
that  the  energy  here  at  work  is  very  great,  though  the  men 
employed  in  carrying  out  its  purposes  may  have  generally  no 

(108) 


AMERICAN  PACTS.  109 

more  individual  ambition  to  understand  those  purposes,  or 
cherish  noble  ones  of  their  own,  than  the  coral  insect  through 
whose  restless  working  new  continents  are  upheaved  from 
ocean's  breast. 

Such  a  man,  passing  in  a  boat  from  one  extremity  of  the 
Mississippi  to  another,  and  observing  every  object  on  the 
shore  as  he  passed,  would  yet  learn  nothing  of  universal  or 
general  value,  because  he  has  no  principles,  even  in  hope,  by 
which  to  classify  them.  American  facts !  Why,  what  has 
been  done  that  marks  individuality  ?  Among  men  there  is 
Franklin.  He  is  a  fact,  and  an  American  fact.  Niagara  is 
another,  in  a  different  style.  The  way  in  which  newspapers 
and  other  periodicals  are  managed  is  American ;  a  go-ahead, 
fearless  adroitness  is  American ;  so  is  not,  exclusively,  the 
want  of  strict  honor.  But  we  look  about  in  vain  for  traits  as 
characteristic  of  what  may  be  individually  the  character  of  the 
nation,  as  we  can  find  at  a  glance  in  reference  to  Spain,  Eng 
land,  France,  or  Turkey.  America  is  as  yet  but  a  European 
babe ;  some  new  ways  and  motions  she  has,  consequent  on  a 
new  position ;  but  that  soul  that  may  shape  her  mature  life 
scarce  begins  to  know  itself  yet.  One  thing  is  certain  ;  we  live 
in  a  large  place,  no  less  morally  than  physically :  woe  to  him 
who  lives  meanly  here,  and  knows  the  exhibitions  of  selfish 
ness  and  vanity  as  the  only  American  facts. 
10 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  MARSHALS.* 

As  we  pass  the  old  Brick  Chapel  our  eye  is  sometimes 
arrested  by  placards  that  hang  side  by  side.  On  one  is  ad 
vertised  "  the  Lives  of  the  Apostles,"  on  the  other  "  Napo 
leon  and  his  Marshals." 

Surely  it  is  the  most  monstrous  thing  the  world  ever  saw, 
that  eighteen  hundred  years'  profound  devotion  to  a  religious 
teacher  should  not  preclude  flagrant  and  all  but  universal 
violation  of  his  most  obvious  precepts ;  that  Napoleon  and 
his  Marshals  should  be  some  of  the  best  ripened  fruit  of  our 
time ;  that  our  own  people,  so  unwearied  in  building  up  tem 
ples  of  wood  and  stone  to  the  Prince  of  Peace,  should  be  at 
this  era  mad  with  boyish  exultation  at  the  winning  of  battles, 
and  in  a  bad  cause  too. 

In  view  of  such  facts  we  cannot  wonder  that  Dr.  Channing, 
the  editor  of  the  Tribune,  and  others  who  make  Christianity 
their  standard,  should  find  little  savor  in  glowing  expositions 
of  the  great  French  drama,  and  be  disgusted  at  words  of  de 
fence,  still  more  of  admiration,  spoken  in  behalf  of  its  lead 
ing  actor. 

We  can  easily  admit  at  once  that  the  whole  French  drama 
was  anti-Christian,  just  as  the  political  conduct  of  every  na 
tion  of  Christendom  has  been  thus  far,  with  rare  and  brief 
exceptions.  Something  different  might  have  been  expected 
from  our  own,  because  the  world  has  now  attained  a  clearer 
consciousness  of  right,  and  in  our  case  our  position  would 
have  made  obedience  easy.  We  have  not  been  led  into 

*  Napoleon  and  his  Marshals,  by  J.  T.  Headley. 

(110) 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  MARSHALS.         Ill 

temptation  ;  we  sought  it.  It  is  greed,  and  not  want,  that  has 
impelled  this  nation  to  wrong.  The  paths  of  peace  would 
have  been  for  her  also  the  paths  of  wisdom  and  of  pleasant 
ness,  but  she  would  not,  and  has  preferred  the  path  of  the 
beast  of  prey  in  the  uncertain  forest,  to  the  green  pastures 
where  "  walks  the  good  Shepherd,  his  meek  temples  crowned 
with  roses  red  and  white." 

Since  the  state  of  things  is  such,  we  see  no  extremity  of 
censure  that  should  fall  upon  the  great  French  leader,  except 
that  he  was  like  the  majority.  He  was  ruthless  and  selfish 
on  a  larger  scale  than  most  monarchs  ;  but  we  see  no  differ 
ence  in  grain,  nor  in  principles  of  action. 

Admit,  then,  that  he  was  not  a  good  man,  and  never  for  one 
moment  acted  disinterestedly.  But  do  not  refuse  to  do  hom 
age  to  his  genius.  It  is  well  worth  your  while  to  learn  to 
appreciate  that,  if  you  wish  to  understand  the  work  that  the 
spirit  of  the  time  did,  and  is  still  doing,  through  him ;  for  his 
mind  is  still  upon  the  earth,  working  here  through  the  tribu 
tary  minds  it  fed.  We  must  say,  for  our  own  part,  we  can 
not  admit  the  right  of  men  severely  to  criticise  Napoleon, 
till  they  are  able  to  appreciate  what  he  was,  as  well  as  see 
what  he  was  not.  And  we  see  no  mind  of  sufficient  grasp,  or 
high-placed  enough  to  take  this  estimate  duly,  nor  do  we  be 
lieve  this  age  will  furnish  one.  Many  problems  will  have  to 
be  worked  out  first. 

We  reject  the  exclusively  moral  no  less  than  the  exclu 
sively  intellectual  view,  and  find  most  satisfaction  in  those 
who,  aiming  neither  at  apology  nor  attack,  make  their  obser 
vations  upon  the  great  phenomenon  as  partial,  and  to  be 
received  as  partial. 

Mr.  Headley,  in  his  first  surprise  at  finding  how  falsely  John 
Bull,  rarely  liberal  enough  to  be  fully  trusted  in  evidence  on 
any  topic,  has  spoken  of  the  acts  of  a  hated  and  dreaded  foe, 
does  indeed  rush  too  much  on  the  other  side.  He  mistakes 
the  touches  of  sentiment  in  Napoleon  for  genuine  feeling. 


112  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Now  we  know  that  Napoleon  loved  to  read  Ossian,  and  could 
appreciate  the  beauty  of  tenderness :  but  we  do  not  believe 
that  he  had  one  particle  of  what  is  properly  termed  heart ;  — 
that  is,  he  could  always  silence  sentiment  at  once  when  his 
projects  demanded  it.  Then  Mr.  Headley  finds  apologies  for 
acts  where  apology  is  out  of  place.  They  characterize  the 
ruthless  nature  of  the  man,  and  that  is  all  that  can  be  said 
of  them.  He  moved  on,  like  the  Juggernaut  car,  to  his  end, 
and  spilled  the  blood  that  was  needed  for  this,  whether  that 
blood  were  "  ditch-water  "  or  otherwise.  Neither  is  this  sup 
posing  him  to  be  a  monster.  The  human  heart  is  very  capa 
ble  of  such  uncontrolled  selfishness,  just  as  it  is  of  angelic 
love.  "Tis  but  the  first  step  that  costs" —  much.  Yet 
some  compassionate  hand  strewed  flowers  on  Nero's  grave, 
and  the  whole  world  cried  shame  when  Bonaparte's  Mame 
luke  forsook  his  master. 

Mr.  Headley  does  not  seem  to  be  aware  that  there  is  no 
trust  to  be  put  in  Napoleon's  own  account  of  his  actions. 
He  seems  to  have  been  almost  incapable  of  speaking  sincerely 
to  those  about  him.  We  doubt  whether  he  could  have  for 
gotten  with  the  woman  he  loved,  that  she  might  become  his 
historiographer. 

But  granting  the  worst  that  can  be  said  of  ruthless  acts  in 
the  stern  Corsican,  are  we  to  reserve  our  anathema  for  him 
alone  ?  He  is  no  worse  than  the  other  crowned  ones,  against 
whom  he  felt  himself  continually  in  the  balance.  He  has 
shed  a  greater  quantity  of  blood,  and  done  mightier  wrongs, 
because  he  had  more  power,  and  followed  with  more  fervor  a 
more  dazzling  lure.  We  see  no  other  difference  between  his 
conduct  and  that  of  the  great  Frederic  of  Prussia.  He  never 
did  any  thing  so  meanly  wicked  as  has  just  been  done  in 
stirring  up  the  Polish  peasants  to  assassinate  the  nobles.  He 
never  did  any  thing  so  atrocious  as  has  been  done  by  Nicho 
las  of  Russia,  who,  just  after  his  hypocritical  intercourse  with 
that  "  venerable  man,"  the  Pope,  when  he  so  zealously  de- 


NAPOLEON   AND   HIS   MARSHALS.  113 

fended  himself  against  the  charge  of  scourging  nuns  to  con 
vert  them  to  the  Greek  church,  administers  the  knout  to  a 
noble  and  beautiful  lady  because  she  had  given  shelter  for 
an  hour  to  the  patriot  Dembinski.  Why  then  so  zealous 
against  Napoleon  only  ?  He  is  but  a  specimen  of  what  man 
must  become  when  he  will  be  king  over  the  bodies,  where  he 
cannot  over  the  souls,  of  his  fellow-men.  We  doubt  if  it  is 
any  worse  in  the  sight  of  God  to  drain  France  of  her  best  blood 
by  the  conscription,  than  to  tear  the  flower  of  Genius  from 
the  breast  of  Italy  to  perish  in  a  dungeon,  leaving  her  over 
whelmed  and  broken-hearted.  Leaving  all  this  aside,  and 
granting  that  Napoleon  might  have  done  more  and  better,  had 
his  heart  been  pure  from  ambition,  which  gave  it  such  elec 
tric  power  to  animate  a  vast  field  of  being,  there  is  no  reason 
why  we  should  not  prize  what  he  did  do.  And  here  we  think 
Mr.  Headley's  style  the  only  one  in  place.  We  honor  him  for 
the  power  he  shows  of  admiring  the  genius  which,  in  plough 
ing  its  gigantic  furrow,  broke  up  every  artificial  barrier  that 
hid  the  nations  of  Europe  one  from  the  other  —  that  has  left 
the  "  career  open  to  talent,"  by  a  gap  so  broad  that  no  "  Chi 
nese  alliance  "  can  ever  close  it  again,  and  in  its  vast  plans  of 
civic  improvement  half-anticipated  Fourier.  With  him  all 
thoughts  became  things ;  it  has  been  spoken  in  blame,  it  has 
been  spoken  in  praise ;  for  ourselves  we  see  not  how  this 
most  practical  age  and  country  can  refuse  to  apprehend  the 
designs,  and  study  the  instincts  of  this  wonderful  practical 
genius. 

The  characters  of  the  marshals  are  kept  up  with  the 
greatest  spirit,  and  that  power  of  seizing  leading  traits  that 
gives  these  sketches  the  greatness  of  dramatic  poetry.  The 
marshals  are  majestic  figures ;  men  vulgar  and  undeveloped 
on  many  sides,  but  always  clear  and  strong  in  their  own  way. 
One  mind  animates  them,  and  of  that  mind  Napoleon  is  the 
culminating  point.  He  did  not  choose  them ;  they  were  a 
part  of  himself,  a  part  of  the  same  thought  of  which  he  was 
10* 


114  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

the  most  forcible  expression.  If  sometimes  inclined  to  dis 
parage  them,  it  was  as  a  man  might  disparage  his  hand  by 
saying  it  was  not  his  head.  He  truly  felt  that  he  was  the  cen 
tral  force,  though  some  of  them  were  greater  in  the  details 
of  action  than  himself.  Attempts  have  often  been  made  to 
darken  even  the  military  fame  of  Napoleon  and  his  generals 

—  attempts  disgraceful  enough  from  a  foe  whom  they  so  long 
held  in  terror.     But  to  any  unprejudiced  mind  there  is  evident 
in  the  conduct  of  their  battles,  the  development  of  the  instincts 
of  genius  in  mighty  force,  and  to  inevitable  results. 

With  all  the  haste  of  hand  and  inequality  of  touch  they 
show,  these  sketches  are  full  of  strength  and  brilliancy,  an 
honor  to  the  country  that  produced  them.  There  is  no  got-up 
harmony,  no  attempt  at  originality  or  acuteness ;  all  is  living, 

—  the  overflow  of  the  mind ;  we  like  Mr.  Headley  ;  even  in 
his  faults  he  is  a  most  agreeable  contrast  to  the  made  men  of 
the  day. 

In  the  sketches  of  the  Marshals  we  have  the  men  before 
us,  a  living  reality.  Masseria,  at  the  siege  of  Genoa,  is  rep 
resented  with  a  great  deal  of  simple  force.  The  whole  per 
sonality  of  Murat,  with  his  "  Oriental  nature "  and  Oriental 
dress,  is  admirably  depicted.  Why  had  nobody  ever  before 
had  the  clearness  of  perception  to  see  just  this,  and  no  more, 
in  the  "  theatrical "  Murat  ?  Of  his  darling  hero,  Ney,  the 
writer  has  implied  so  much  all  along,  that  he  lays  less  stress 
on  what  he  says  of  him  directly.  He  thinks  it  is  all  under 
stood,  and  it  is. 

Take  this  book  for  just  what  it  is  ;  do  not  look  for  cool  dis 
cussion,  impartial  criticism,  but  take  it  as  a  vivacious  and  feel 
ing  representation  of  events  and  actors  in  a  great  era :  you 
will  find  it  full  of  truth,  such  as  only  sympathy  could  teach, 
and  will  derive  from  it  a  pleasure  and  profit  lively  and  gen 
uine  as  itself.  As  to. denying  or  correcting  its  statements,  it 
is  very  desirable  that  those  who  are  able  should  do  that  part 
of  the  work ;  but,  in  doing  it,  let  them  be  grateful  for  what  is 


NAPOLEON  AND  HIS  MARSHALS.        115 

done,  and  what  they  could  not  do ;  grateful  for  reproduction 
such  as  he  who  throws  himself  into  the  genius  and  the  per 
sons  of  the  time  may  hope  for ;  but  he  never  can  who 
keeps  himself  composed  in  critical  distance  and  self-posses 
sion.  You  cannot  have  all  excellences  combined  in  one  per 
son;  let  us  then  cheerfully  work  together  to  complete  the 
beautiful  whole,  —  beautiful  in  its  unity, — no  less  beautiful 
in  its  variety. 


PHYSICAL   EDUCATION* 

THIS  lecture  of  Dr.  Warren  is  printed  in  a  form  suitable 
for  popular  distribution,  while  the  high  reputation  of  its 
author  insures  it  respect.  Readers  will  expect  to  find  here 
those  rules  for  daily  practice  taught  by  that  plain  common- 
sense  which  men  possess  from  nature,  but  strangely  lose 
sight  of,  amid  their  many  inventions,  and  are  obliged  to 
rediscover  by  aid  of  experience  and  science. 

Here  will  be  found  those  general  statements  as  to  modes 
of  exercise,  care  of  the  skin,  choice  of  food,  and  time,  and 
circumstances  required  for  its  digestion,  which  might  furnish 
the  ounce  of  prevention  that  is  worth  so  many  pounds  of 
cure.  And  how  much  are  these  needed  in  this  country, 
where  the  most  barbarous  ignorance  prevails  on  the  sub 
ject  of  cleanliness,  sleeping  accommodations,  &c. !  On  these 
subjects  improvement  would  be  easy ;  that  of  diet  is  far  more 
complicated,  and  is,  unfortunately,  one  which  requires  great 
knowledge  of  the  ways  in  which  the  human  frame  is  affected 
by  the  changes  of  climate  and  various  other  influences,  even 
wisely  to  discuss.  If  it  is  difficult  where  a  race,  mostly  indige 
nous  to  the  soil,  feed  upon  what  Mother  Nature  has  prepared 
expressly  for  their  use,  and  where  excess  or  want  of  judgment 
in  its  use  produces  disease,  it  must  be  far  more  so  where 
men  come  from  all  latitudes  to  live  under  new  circumstances, 
and  need  a  judicious  adaptation  of  the  old  to  the  new.  The 
dogmatism  and  proscription  that  prevail  on  this  topic  amuse 


*  Physical  Education    and  the   Preservation  of  Health,  by   John   C. 
Warren. 

(116) 


PHYSICAL    EDUCATION.  117 

the  observer  and  distress  the  patient.  "  Touch  no  meat  for 
your  life,"  says  one.  "  It  is  not  meat,  but  sugar,  that  is  your 
ruin,"  cries  another.  "No,  salt  is  the  destruction  of  the 
world,"  sadly  and  gravely  declares  a  third.  Milk,  which 
once  conciliated  all  regards,  has  its  denunciators.  "  Water," 
say  some,  "  is  the  bliss  that  shall  dissolve  all  bane.  Drink  ; 
wash  —  take  to  yourself  all  the  water  you  can  get."  "  That 
is  madness  —  is  far  worse  than  useless,"  cry  others,  "  unless 
the  water  be  pure.  You  must  touch  none  that  has  not  been 
tested  by  a  chemist."  "  Yes,  you  may  at  any  rate  drink  it," 
say  others,  "  and  in  large  quantities,  for  the  power  of  water 
to  aid  digestion  is  obvious  to  every  observer." 

"  No,"  says  Dr.  Warren,  "  animals  do  not  drink  at  the  time 
they  eat,  but  some  hours  after ;  and  they  generally  take  very 
small  quantities  of  liquid,  compared  with  that  which  is  used 
by  man.  The  savage,  in  his  native  wilds,  takes  his  solid  food, 
when  he  can  obtain  it,  to  satiety,  reposes  afterwards,  and  then 
resuming  his  chase  through  the  forest,  stops  at  the  rivulet  to 
allay  his  thirst.  The  disadvantage  of  taking  a  large  quantity 
of  liquid  must  be  obvious  to  all  those  who  consider  that  the 
digesting  liquid  is  diluted  and  weakened  in  proportion  to  the 
quantity  of  drink." 

What  wonder  is  it,  if  even  the  well-disposed  among  the 
multitude,  seeing  such  dissension  among  the  counsellors,  gath 
ering  just  enough  from  their  disputes  to  infer  that  they  have 
no  true  philosophical  basis  for  their  opinions,  and  seeing 
those  who  would  set  the  example  in  practice  of  this  art  with 
out  science  of  dietetics  generally  among  the  most  morbid  and 
ill-developed  specimens  of  humanity,  just  throw  aside  all  rule 
upon  the  subject,  partake  of  what  is  set  before  them,  trust  to 
air,  exercise,  and  good  intentions  to  ward  off  the  worst  effects 
of  the  promiscuous  fare  ? 

Yet,  while  hopeless  at  present  of  selecting  the  right  articles, 
and  building  up,  so  far  as  hereditary  taint  will  permit,  a  pure 
and  healthful  body  from  feeding  on  congenial  substances,  we 


118  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

know  at  least  this  much,  that  stimulants  and  over-eating  — 
not  food  —  are  injurious,  and  may  take  care  enough  of  our 
selves  to  avoid  these. 

The  other  branches  we  can  really  act  wisely  in,  Dr.  War 
ren,  after  giving  the  usual  directions  (rarely  followed  as  yet) 
for  airing  beds  and  sleeping-rooms,  adds,  — 

"  The  manner  in  which  children  sleep  will  readily  be  ac 
knowledged  to  be  important ;  yet  very  little  attention  is  paid 
to  this  matter.  Children  are  crowded  together  in  small,  un- 
ventilated  rooms,  often  two  or  three  in  a  bed,  and  on  beds 
composed  of  half  prepared  feathers,  from  which  issues  a 
noxious  effluvia,  infecting  the  child  at  a  period  when  he  is 
least  able  to  resist  its  influence  ;  so  that  in  the  morning, 
instead  of  feeling  the  full  refreshment  and  vigor  natural  to 
his  age,  he  is  pale,  languid,  and  for  some  time  indisposed 
to  exertion. 

"  The  rooms  in  which  children  are  brought  up  should  be 
well  aired,  by  having  a  fireplace,  which  should  be  kept  open 
the  greater  part  of  the  year.  There  never  should  be  more 
than  one  in  the  same  bed ;  and  this  remark  may  be  applied 
with  equal  propriety  to  adults.  The  substance  on  which  they 
lie  should  be  hair,  thoroughly  prepared,  so  that  it  should  have 
no  bad  smell.  In  winter  it  may  be  of  cotton,  or  of  hair  and 
cotton.  It  would  be  very  desirable,  however,  to  place  chil 
dren  in  separate  apartments,  as  well  as  in  separate  beds. 

"It  has  been  justly  said  that  adults  as  well  as  children  had 
better  employ  single  instead  of  double  beds  ;  this  remark  is 
intended  to  apply  universally.  The  use  of  double  beds  has 
been  very  generally  adopted  in  this  country,  perhaps  in  part 
as  a  matter  of  economy ;  but  this  practice  is  objectionable,  for 
more  reasons  than  can  be  stated  here." 

On  the  subject  of  exercise,  he  mentions  particularly  the 
triangle,  and  we  copy  what  he  says,  because  of  the  perfect 
ease  and  convenience  with  which  one  could  be  put  up  and 
used  in  every  bed-chamber. 


PHYSICAL    EDUCATION.  119 

"  The  exercising  the  upper  limbs  is  too  much  neglected  ; 
and  it  is  important  to  provide  the  means  of  bringing  them 
into  action,  as  well  to  develop  their  powers  as  to  enlarge  and 
invigorate  the  chest,  with  which  they  are  connected,  and 
which  they  powerfully  influence.  The  best  I  know  of  is  the 
use  of  the  triangle.  This  admirably  exerts  the  upper  limbs 
and  the  muscles  of  the  chest,  and,  indeed,  when  adroitly  em 
ployed,  those  of  the  whole  body,  The  triangle  is  made  of  a 
stick  of  walnut  wood,  four  feet  long,  and  an  inch  and  a  half  in 
diameter.  To  each  end  is  connected  a  rope,  the  opposite  ex 
tremities  of  which  being  confined  together  at  such  height  as  to 
allow  the  motion  of  swinging  by  the  hands." 

We  have  ourselves  derived  the  greatest  benefit  from  this 
simple  means.  Gymnastic  exercises,  and  if  possible  in  the 
open  air,  are  needed  by  every  one  who  is  not  otherwise  led 
to  exercise  all  parts  of  the  body  by  various  kinds  of  labor. 
Some,  though  only  partial  provision,  is  made  for  boys  by 
gymnasia  and  riding-schools.  In  wiser  nations,  such  have 
been  the  care  of  the  state.  And  in  despotic  governments,  the 
jealousy  of  a  tyrant  was  never  more  justly  awakened  than 
when  the  youth  of  the  land,  by  a  devotion  to  gymnastic  exer 
cises,  showed  their  aspiration  to  reach  the  healthful  stature  of 
manhood.  For  every  one  who  possesses  a  strong  mind  in  a 
sane  body  is  heir  presumptive  to  the  kingdom  of  this  world  ; 
he  needs  no  external  credentials,  but  has  only  to  appear  and 
make  clear  his  title.  But  for  such  a  princely  form  the  eye 
searches  the  street,  the  mart,  and  the  council-chamber,  in  vain. 

Those  who  feel  that  the  game  of  life  is  so  nearly  up  with 
them  that  they  cannot  devote  much  of  the  time  that  is  left  to 
the  care  of  wise  living  in  their  own  persons,  should,  at  least, 
be  unwilling  to  injure  the  next  generation  by  the  same  igno 
rance  which  has  blighted  so  many  of  us  in  our  earliest  year. 
Such  should  attend  to  the  work  of  Mr.  Combe,*  among  other 

*  Physiological  and  Moral  Management  of  Infancy,  by  Andrew 
Combe,  M.  D. 


120  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

good  books.  Mr.  Combe  has  done  much  good  already  in  this 
country,  and  this  book  should  be  circulated  every  where,  for 
many  of  its  suggestions  are  too  obviously  just  not  to  be 
adopted  as  soon  as  read. 

Dr.  Warren  bears  his  testimony  against  the  pernicious 
effects  that  follow  upon  the  use  of  tobacco,  and  we  cannot 
but  hope  that  what  he  says  of  its  tendency  to  create  cancer 
will  have  weight  with  some  who  are  given  to  the  detesta 
ble  habit  of  chewing.  This  practice  is  so  odious  to  women, 
that  we  must  regard  its  prevalence  here  as  a  token  of  the 
very  light  regard  in  which  they  are  held,  and  the  consequent 
want  of  refinement  among  men.  Dr.  Warren  seems  to  favor 
the  practice  of  hydropathy  to  some  extent,  but  must  needs 
bear  his  testimony  in  full  against  homoeopath v.  ]So  matter  ; 
the  little  doses  will  insinuate  their  way,  and  cure  the  ills  that 
flesh  is  heir  to, 

"For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 
And  mickle  mair  for  a'  that." 


FREDERICK  DOUGLASS.* 

FREDERICK  DOUGLASS  has  been  for  some  time  a  promi 
nent  member  of  the  abolition  party.  He  is  said  to  be  an 
excellent  speaker  —  can  speak  from  a  thorough  personal  ex 
perience  —  and  has  upon  the  audience,  besides,  the  influence 
of  a  strong  character  and  uncommon  talents.  In  the  book 
before  us  he  has  put  into  the  story  of  his  life  the  thoughts,  the 
feelings,  and  the  adventures  that  have  been  so  affecting 
through  the  living  voice  ;  nor  are  they  less  so  from  the  printed 
page.  He  has  had  the  courage  to  name  persons,  times, 
and  places,  thus  exposing  himself  to  obvious  danger,  and  set 
ting  the  seal  on  his  deep  convictions  as  to  the  religious  need 
of  speaking  the  whole  truth.  Considered  merely  as  a  narra 
tive,  we  have  never  read  one  more  simple,  true,  coherent,  and 
warm  with  genuine  feeling.  It  is  an  excellent  piece  of  writ 
ing,  and  on  that  score  to  be  prized  as  a  specimen  of  the  pow 
ers  of  the  black  race,  which  prejudice  persists  in  disputing. 
"We  prize  highly  all  evidence  of  this  kind,  and  it  is  becoming 
more  abundant.  The  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  has  just 
been  conferred  in  France  on  Dumas  and  Soulie,  both  cele 
brated  in  the  paths  of  light  literature.  Dumas,  whose  father 
was  a  general  in  the  French  army,  is  a  mulatto ;  Soulie,  a 
quadroon.  He  went  from  New  Orleans,  where,  though  to  the 
eye  a  white  man,  yet,  as  known  to  have  African  blood  in  his 
veins,  he  could  never  have  enjoyed  the  privileges  due  to  a 
human  being.  Leaving  the  land  of  freedom,  he  found  him 
self  free  to  develop  the  powers  that  God  had  given. 

*  Narrative  of  the  Life  of  Frederick  Douglass,  an  American  Slave,  writ 
ten  by  himself. 

11  (121) 


122  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Two  wise  and  candid  thinkers  —  the  Scotchman  Kinmont, 
prematurely  lost  to  this  country,  of  which  he  was  so  faithful 
and  generous  a  student,  and  the  late  Dr.  Channing,  —  both 
thought  that  the  African  race  had  in  them  a  peculiar  ele 
ment,  which,  if  it  could  be  assimilated  with  those  imported 
among  us  from  Europe,  would  give  to  genius  a  development, 
and  to  the  energies  of  character  a  balance  and  harmony, 
beyond  what  has  been  seen  heretofore  in  the  history  of  the 
world.  Such  an  element  is  indicated  in  their  lowest  estate  by 
a  talent  for  melody,  a  ready  skill  at  imitation  and  adaptation, 
an  almost  indestructible  elasticity  of  nature.  It  is  to  be  re 
marked  in  the  writings  both  of  Soulie  and  Dumas,  full  of 
faults,  but  glowing  with  plastic  life  and  fertile  in  invention. 
The  same  torrid  energy  and  saccharine  fulness  may  be  felt  in 
the  writings  of  this  Douglass,  though  his  life,  being  one  of 
action  or  resistance,  has  been  less  favorable  to  such  powers 
than  one  of  a  more  joyous  flow  might  have  been. 

The  book  is  prefaced  by  two  communications  —  one  from 
Garrison,  and  one  from  Wendell  Phillips.  That  from  the 
former  is  in  his  usual  over-emphatic  style.  His  motives 
and  his  course  have  been  noble  and  generous ;  we  look  upon 
him  with  high  respect ;  but  he  has  indulged  in  violent  invec 
tive  and  denunciation  till  he  has  spoiled  the  temper  of  his 
mind.  Like  a  man  who  has  been  in  the  habit  of  screaming 
himself  hoarse  to  make  the  deaf  hear,  he  can  no  longer  pitch 
his  voice  on  a  key  agreeable  to  common  ears.  Mr.  Phillips's 
remarks  are  equally  decided,  without  this  exaggeration  in  the 
tone.  Douglass  himself  seems  very  just  and  temperate.  We 
feel  that  his  view,  even  of  those  who  have  injured  him  most, 
may  be  relied  upon.  He  knows  how  to  allow  for  motives  and 
influences.  Upon  the  subject  of  religion,  he  speaks  with 
great  force,  and  not  more  than  our  own  sympathies  can  re 
spond  to.  The  inconsistencies  of  slaveholding  professors  of 
religion  cry  to  Heaven.  We  are  not  disposed  to  detest,  or 
refuse  communion  with  them.  Their  blindness  is  but  one 


FREDERICK   DOUGLASS.  123 

form  of  that  prevalent  fallacy  which  substitutes  a  creed  for  a 
faith,  a  ritual  for  a  life.  "We  have  seen  too  much  of  this  sys 
tem  of  atonement  not  to  know  that  those  who  adopt  it  often 
began  with  good  intentions,  and  are,  at  any  rate,  in  their  mis 
takes  worthy  of  the  deepest  pity.  But  that  is  no  reason  why 
the  truth  should  not  be  uttered,  trumpet-tongued,  about  the 
thing.  "  Bring  no  more  vain  oblations  ; "  sermons  must  daily 
be  preached  anew  on  that  text.  Kings,  five  hundred  years 
ago,  built  churches  with  the  spoils  of  war ;  clergymen  to-day 
command  slaves  to  obey  a  gospel  which  they  will  not  allow 
them  to  read,  and  call  themselves  Christians  amid  the  curses 
of  their  fellow-men.  The  world  ought  to  get  on  a  little  faster 
than  this,  if  there  be  really  any  principle  of  improvement  in 
it.  The  kingdom  of  heaven  may  not  at  the  beginning  have 
dropped  seed  larger  than  a  mustard-seed,  but  even  from  that 
we  had  a  right  to  expect  a  fuller  growth  than  we  can  be 
lieve  to  exist,  when  we  read  such  a  book  as  this  of  Doug 
lass.  Unspeakably  affecting  is  the  fact  that  he  never  saw  his 
mother  at  all  by  daylight. 

"  I  do  not  recollect  of  ever  seeing  my  mother  by  the  light 
of  day.  She  was  with  me  in  the  night.  She  would  lie  down 
with  me,  and  get  me  to  sleep,  but  long  before  I  waked  she 
was  gone." 

The  following  extract  presents  a  suitable  answer  to  the 
hackneyed  argument  drawn  by  the  defender  of  slavery  from 
the  songs  of  the  slave,  and  is  also  a  good  specimen  of  the 
powers  of  observation  and  manly  heart  of  the  writer.  We 
wish  that  every  one  may  read  his  book,  and  see  what  a  mind 
might  have  been  stifled  in  bondage  —  what  a  man  may  be 
subjected  to  the  insults  of  spendthrift  dandies,  or  the  blows 
of  mercenary  brutes,  in  whom  there  is  no  whiteness  except  of 
the  skin,  no  humanity  except  in  the  outward  form,  and  of 
whom  the  Avenger  will  not  fail  yet  to  demand,  "  Where  is 
thy  brother  ?  " 

"  The  Home  Plantation  of  Colonel  Lloyd  wore  the  appear- 


124  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

ance  of  a  country  village.  All  the  mechanical  operations  for 
all  the  farms  were  performed  here.  The  shoemaking  and 
mending,  the  blacksmithing,  cartwrighting?  coopering,  weav 
ing,  and  grain-grinding,  were  all  performed  by  the  slaves  on 
the  Home  Plantation.  The  whole  place  wore  a  business-like 
aspect  very  unlike  the  neighboring  farms.  The  number  of 
houses,  too,  conspired  to  give  it  advantage  over  the  neighbor 
ing  farms.  It  was  called  by  the  slaves  the  Great  House 
Farm.  Few  privileges  were  esteemed  higher,  by  the  slaves 
of  the  out-farms,  than  that  of  being  selected  to  do  errands  at 
the  Great  House  Farm.  It  was  associated  in  their  minds 
with  greatness.  A  representative  could  not  be  prouder  of  his 
election  to  a  seat  in  the  American  Congress,  than  a  slave  on 
one  of  the  out-farms  would  be  of  his  election  to  do  errands  at 
the  Great  House  Farm.  They  regarded  it  as  evidence  of 
great  confidence  reposed  in  them  by  their  qverseers ;  and  it 
was  on  this  account,  as  well  as  a  constant  desire  to  be  out  of 
the  field,  from  under  the  driver's  lash,  that  they  esteemed  it  a 
high  privilege,  one  worth  careful  living  for.  He  was  called 
the  smartest  and  most  trusty  fellow  who  had  this  honor  con 
ferred  upon  him  the  most  frequently.  The  competitors  for 
this  office  sought  as  diligently  to  please  their  overseers  as  the 
office-seekers  in  the  political  parties  seek  to  please  and  de 
ceive  the  people.  The  same  traits  of  character  might  be  seen 
in  Colonel  Lloyd's  slaves,  as  are  seen  in  the  slaves  of  the 
political  parties. 

"  The  slaves  selected  to  go  to  the  Great  House  Farm,  for 
the  monthly  allowance  for  themselves  and  their  fellow-slaves, 
were  peculiarly  enthusiastic.  While  on  their  way,  they  would 
make  the  dense  old  woods,  for  miles  around,  reverberate  with 
their  wild  songs,  revealing  at  once  the  highest  joy  and  the 
deepest  sadness.  They  would  compose  and  sing  as  they  went 
along,  consulting  neither  time  nor  tune.  The  thought  that 
came  up  came  out,  —  if  not  in  the  word,  in  the  sound,  —  and 
as  frequently  in  the  one  as  in  the  other.  They  would  some- 


FREDERICK   DOUGLASS.  125 

times  sing  the  most  pathetic  sentiment  in  the  most  rapturous 
tone,  and  the  most  rapturous  sentiment  in  the  most  pathetic 
tone.  Into  all  their  songs  they  would  manage  to  weave  some 
thing  of  the  Great  House  Farm.  Especially  would  they  do 
this  when  leaving  home.  They  would  then  sing  most  exult- 
ingly  the  following  words  :  — - 

'  I  am  going  away  to  the  Great  House  Farm  ! 
O,  yea  !  0,  yea !  0  ! ' 

This  they  would  sing  as  a  chorus  to  words  which  to  many 
would  seem  unmeaning  jargon,  but  which,  nevertheless,  were 
full  of  meaning  to  themselves.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
that  the  mere  hearing  of  those  songs  would  do  more  to  im 
press  some  minds  with  the  horrible  character  of  slavery,  than 
the  reading  of  whole  volumes  of  philosophy  on  the  subject 
could  do. 

"  I  did  not,  when  a  slave,  understand  the  deep  meaning  of 
those  rude  and  apparently  incoherent  songs.  I  was  myself 
within  the  circle ;  so  that  I  neither  saw  nor  heard  as  those 
without  might  see  and  hear.  They  told  a  tale  of  woe  which 
was  then  altogether  beyond  my  feeble  comprehension ;  they 
were  tones  loud,  long,  and  deep ;  they  breathed  the  prayer 
and  complaint  of  souls  boiling  over  with  the  bitterest  anguish. 
Every  tone  was  a  testimony  against  slavery,  and  a  prayer  to 
God  for  deliverance  from  chains.  The  hearing  of  those  wild 
notes  always  depressed  my  spirit,  and  filled  me  with  ineffable 
sadness.  I  have  frequently  found  myself  in  tears  while  hear 
ing  them.  The  mere  recurrence  to  those  songs,  even  now, 
afflicts  me  ;  and  while  I  am  writing  these  lines,  an  expression 
of  feeling  has  already  found  its  way  down  my  cheek.  To 
those  songs  I  trace  my  first  glimmering  conception  of  the  de 
humanizing  character  of  slavery.  I  can  never  get  rid  of  that 
conception.  Those  songs  still  follow  me,  to  deepen  my  hatred 
of  slavery,  and  quicken  my  sympathies  for  my  brethren  in 
bonds.  If  any  one  wishes  to  be  impressed  with  the  soul-kill- 
11* 


126  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN". 

ing  effects  of  slavery,  let  him  go  to  Colonel  Lloyd's  plantation, 
and,  on  allowance  day,  place  himself  in  the  deep  pine  woods, 
and  there  let  him,  in  silence,  analyze  the  sounds  that  shall 
pass  through  the  chambers  of  his  soul ;  and  if  he  is  not  thus 
impressed,  it  will  only  be  because  '  there  is  no  flesh  in  his 
obdurate  heart.' 

"  I  have  often  been  utterly  astonished,  since  I  came  to  the 
north,  to  find  persons  who  could  speak  of  the  singing  among 
slaves  as  evidence  of  their  contentment  and  happiness.  It  is 
impossible  to  conceive  of  a  greater  mistake.  Slaves  sing 
most  when  they  are  mo*st  unhappy.  The  songs  of  the  slave 
represent  the  sorrows  of  his  heart ;  and  he  is  relieved  by 
them  only  as  an  aching  heart  is  relieved  by  its  tears.  At 
least,  such  is  my  experience.  I  have  often  sung  to  drown  my 
sorrow,  but  seldom  to  express  my  happiness.  Crying  for  joy 
and  singing  for  joy  were  alike  uncommon  to  me  while  in  the 
jaws  of  slavery.  The  singing  of  a  man  cast  away  upon  a 
desolate  island  might  be  as  appropriately  considered  as  evi 
dence  of  contentment  and  happiness,  as  the  singing  of  a  slave ; 
the  songs  of  the  one  and  of  the  other  are  prompted  by  the 
same  emotion." 


PHILIP  VAN   ARTEVELDE  * 

THESE  volumes  have  met  with  as  warm  a  reception  "  as 
ever  unripe  author's  quick  conceit,"  to  use  Mr.  Taylor's  own 
language,  could  hope  or  wish ;  and  so  deservedly,  that  the 
critic's  happy  task,  in  examining  them,  is  to  point  out,  not 
what  is  most  to  be  blamed,  but  what  is  most  to  be  praised. 

With  joy  we  hail  a  new  poet.  Star  after  star  has  been 
withdrawn  from  our  firmament,  and  when  that  of  Coleridge 
set,  we  seemed  in  danger  of  being  left,  at  best,  to  a  gray  and 
confounding  twilight ;  but,  lo !  a  "  ray  of  pure  white  light " 
darts  across  the  obscured  depths  of  ether,  and  allures  our  eyes 
and  hearts  towards  the  rising  orb  from  which  it  emanates. 
Let  us  tremble  no  more  lest  our  summer  pass  away  without 
its  roses,  but  receive  our  present  visitor  as  the  harbinger  of  a 
harvest  of  delights. 

The  natural  process  of  the  mind  in  forming  a  judgment  is 
comparison.  The  office  of  sound  criticism  is  to  teach  that  this 
comparison  should  be  made,  not  between  the  productions  of 
differently-constituted  minds,  but  between  any  one  of  these  and 
a  fixed  standard  of  perfection.  Nevertheless  it  is  not  contrary 
to  the  canon  to  take  a  survey  of  the  labors  of  many  artists 
with  reference  to  one,  if  we  value  them,  not  according  to  the 
degree  of  pleasure  we  have  experienced  from  them,  which 
must  always  depend  upon  our  then  age,  the  state  of  the  pas 
sions  and  relations  with  life,  but  according  to  the  success  of  the 
artist  in  attaining  the  object  he  himself  had  in  view.  To 
illustrate :  In  the  same  room  hang  two  pictures,  Raphael's 

*  Philip  van  Artevelde,  A  Dramatic  Romance,  by  Henry  Taylor. 

(127) 


128  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Madonna  and  Martin's  Destruction  of  Nineveh.  A  person 
enters,  capable  of  admiring  both,  but  young,  excitable ;  he  is 
delighted  with  the  Madonna,  but  probably  far  more  so  with 
the  other,  because  his  imagination  is  at  that  time  more  devel 
oped  than  the  pure  love  for  beauty  which  is  the  characteristic 
of  a  taste  in  a  higher  state  of  cultivation.  He  prefers  the 
Martin,  because  it  excites  in  his  mind  a  thousand  images  of 
sublimity  and  terror,  recalls  the  brilliancy  of  Oriental  history, 
and  the  stern  pomp  of  the  old  prophetic  day,  and  rouses  his 
mind  to  a  high  state  of  action,  then  as  congenial  with  its  wants 
as  at  a  later  day  would  be  the  feeling  of  contented  absorption, 
of  perfect  satisfaction  with  a  production  of  the  human  soul, 
which  one  of  Raphael's  calmly  beautiful  creations  is  fitted  to 
cause.  Now,  it  would  be  very  unfair  for  this  person  to  pro 
nounce  the  Martin  superior  to  the  Raphael,  because  it  then 
gave  him  more  pleasure.  But  if  he  said,  the  one  is  intended 
to  excite  the  imagination,  the  other  to  gratify  the  taste,  that 
which  fulfils  its  object  most  completely  must  be  the  best, 
whether  it  give  me  most  pleasure  or  no  ;  he  would  be  on  the 
right  ground,  and  might  consider  the  two  pictures  relatively 
to  one  another,  without  danger  of  straying  very  far  from  the 
truth. 

This  is  the  ground  we  would  assume  in  a  hasty  sketch, 
which  will  not,  we  hope,  be  deemed  irrelevant,  of  the  most 
prominent  essays  to  which  the  last  sixty  years  have  given 
rise  in  the  department  of  the  work  now  before  us,  previous  to 
stating  our  opinion  of  its  merits.  Many,  we  are  aware,  ridi 
cule  the  idea  of  filling  reviews  with  long  dissertations,  and  say 
they  only  want  brief  accounts  of  such  books  as  are  coming 
out,  by  way  of  saving  time.  With  such  we  cannot  agree. 
We  think  the  office  of  the  reviewer  is,  indeed,  in  part,  to  point 
out  to  the  public  attention  deserving  works,  which  might 
otherwise  slumber  too  long  unknown  on  the  bookseller's 
shelves,  but  still  more  to  present  to  the  reader  as  large  a 
cluster  of  objects  round  one  point  as  possible,  thus,  by  sugges- 


PHILIP   VAN   ARTEVELDE.  129 

tion,  stimulating  him  to  take  a  broader  or  more  careful  view 
of  the  subject  than  his  indolence  or  his  business  would  have 
permitted. 

The  terms  Classical  and  Romantic,  which  have  so  long 
divided  European  critics,  and  exercised  so  powerful  an  influ 
ence  upon  their  decisions,  are  not  much  known  or  heeded 
among  us,  —  as,  indeed,  belles-lettres  cannot,  generally,  in  our 
busy  state  of  things,  be  important  or  influential,  as  among  a 
less  free  and  more  luxurious  people,  to  whom  the  more  im 
portant  truths  are  proffered  through  those  indirect  but  allur 
ing  mediums.  Here,  where  every  thing  may  be  spoken  or 
written,  and  the  powers  that  be,  abused  without  ceremony  on 
the  very  highway,  the  Muse  has  nothing  to  do  with  dagger 
or  bowl ;  hardly  is  the  censor's  wand  permitted  to  her  hand. 
Yet  is  her  lyre  by  no  means  unheeded,  and  if  it  is  rather  by 
refining  our  tastes  than  by  modelling  our  opinions  that  she 
influences  us,  yet  is  that  influence  far  from  unimportant. 
And  the  time  is  coming,  perhaps  in  our  day,  we  may  (if  war 
do  not  untimely  check  the  national  progress)  even  see  and 
temper  its  beginning,  when  the  broad  West  shall  swarm  with 
an  active,  happy,  and  cultivated  population  ;  when  the  South, 
freed  from  the  incubus  which  now  oppresses  her  best  energies, 
shall  be  able  to  do  justice  to  the  resources  of  her  soil  and  of 
her  mind ;  when  the  East,  gathering  from  every  breeze  the 
riches  of  the  old  world,  shall  be  the  unwearied  and  loving 
agent  to  those  regions  which  lie  far  away  from  the  great  deep, 
our  bulwark  and  our  minister.  Then  will  the  division  of 
labor  be  more  complete ;  then  will  a  surplus  of  talent  be 
spared  from  the  mart,  the  forum,  and  the  pulpit ;  then  will 
the  fine  arts  assume  their  proper  dignity,  as  the  expression  of 
what  is  highest  and  most  ethereal  in  the  mind  of  a  people. 
Then  will  our  quarries  be  thoroughly  explored,  and  furnish 
materials  for  stately  fabrics  to  adorn  the  face  of  all  the  land, 
while  our  ports  shall  be  crowded  with  foreign  artists  flocking 
to  take  lessons  in  the  school  of  American  architecture. 


130  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Then  will  our  floral  treasures  be  arranged  into  harmonious 
gardens,  which,  environing  tasteful  homes,  shall  dimple  all  the 
landscape.  Then  will  our  Allstons  and  our  Greenoughs  pre 
side  over  great  academies,  and  be  raised  far  above  any  need, 
except  of  giving  outward  form  to  the  beautiful  ideas  which 
animate  them ;  and  ornament  from  the  exhaustless  stores  of 
genius  the  marble  halls  where  the  people  meet  to  rejoice,  or 
to  mourn,  or  where  dwell  those  wise  and  good  whom  the  peo 
ple  delight  to  honor.  Then  shall  music  answer  to  and  exalt 
the  national  spirit,  and  the  poet's  brows  shall  be  graced  with 
the  civic  as  well  as  the  myrtle  crown.  Then  shall  we  have 
an  American  mind,  as  well  as  an  American  system,  and,  no 
longer  under  the  sad  necessity  of  exchanging  money  for 
thoughts,  traffic  on  perfectly  equal  terms  with  the  other  hem 
isphere.  Then  —  ah,  not  yet !  —  shall  our  literature  make 
its  own  laws,  and  give  its  own  watchwords;  till  then  we 
must  learn  and  borrow  from  that  of  nations  who  possess  a 
higher  degree  of  cultivation  though  a  much  lower  one  of 
happiness. 

The  term  Classical,  used  in  its  narrow  sense,  implies  a  ser 
vile  adherence  to  the  Unities,  but  in  its  wide  and  best  sense, 
it  means  such  a  simplicity  of  plan,  selection  of  actors  and 
events,  such  judicious  limitations  on  time  and  range  of  subject, 
as  may  concentrate  the  interest,  perfect  the  illusion,  and  make 
the  impression  most  distinct  and  forcible.  Although  no  advo 
cates  for  the  old  French  school,  with  its  slavish  obedience  to 
rule,  which  introduces  follies  greater  than  those  it  would  guard 
against,  we  lay  the  blame,  not  on  their  view  of  the  drama, 
but  on  the  then  bigoted  nationality  of  the  French  mind,  which 
converted  the  Mussulman  prophet  into  a  De  Retz,  the  Roman 
princess  into  a  French  grisette,  and  infected  the  clear  and 
buoyant  atmosphere  of  Greece  with  the  vapors  of  the  Seine. 
We  speak  of  the  old  French  Drama :  with  the  modern  we  do 
not  profess  to  be  acquainted,  having  met  with  scarcely  any 
specimens  in  our  own  bookstores  or  libraries ;  but  if  it  has 


PHILIP   VAN   ARTEVELDE.  131 

been  revolutionized  with  the  rest  of  their  literature,  it  is 
probably  as  unlike  as  possible  to  the  former  models. 

We  shall  speak  of  productions  in  the  classical  spirit  first ; 
because  Mr.  Taylor  is  a  disciple  of  the  other  school,  though 
otherwise  we  should  have  adopted  a  contrary  course. 

The  most  perfect  specimens  of  this  style  with  which  we 
are  acquainted  are  the  Filippo,  the  Saul,  and  the  Myrrha  of 
Alfieri ;  the  Wallenstein  of  Schiller  ;  the  Tasso  and  the  Iph- 
igenia  of  Goethe.  England  furnishes  nothing  of  the  sort. 
She  is  thoroughly  Shakspearian. 

There  is  no  higher  pleasure  than  to  see  a  genius  of  a  wild, 
impassioned,  many-sided  eagerness,  restraining  its  exuberance 
by  its  sense  of  fitness,  taming  its  extravagance  beneath  the 
rule  its  taste  approves,  exhibiting  the  soul  within  soul,  and 
the  force  of  the  will  over  all  that  we  inherit.  The  abandon 
of  genius  has  its  beauty  —  far  more  beautiful  its  voluntary 
submission  to  wise  law.  A  picture,  a  description,  has  beauty, 
the  beauty  of  life  ;  these  pictures,  these  descriptions,  arranged 
upon  a  plan,  made  subservient  to  a  purpose,  have  a  higher 
beauty  —  that  of  the  mind  of  man  acting  upon  life.  Art  is 
nature,  but  nature  new-modelled,  condensed,  and  harmonized. 
We  are  not  merely  like  mirrors,  to  reflect  our  own  times  to 
those  more  distant.  The  mind  has  a  light  of  its  own,  and  by 
it  illumines  what  it  re-creates. 

This  is  the  ground  of  our  preference  for  the  classical  school, 
and  for  Alfieri  beyond  all  pupils  of  that  school.  We  hold  that 
if  a  vagrant  bud  of  poesy  here  and  there  be  blighted  by  con 
forming  to  its  rules,  our  loss  is  more  than  made  up  to  us  by 
our  enjoyment  of  plan,  of  symmetry,  of  the  triumph  of  genius 
over  multiplied  obstacles. 

It  has  been  often  said  that  the  dramas  of  Alfieri  contrast 
directly  with  his  character.  This  is,  perhaps,  not  true ;  we 
do  but  see  the  depths  of  that  volcano  which  in  early  days 
bbiled  over  so  fiercely.  The  wild,  infatuated  youth  often 
becomes  the  stern,  pitiless  old  man.  Alfieri  did  but  bend 


132  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

his  surplus  strength  upon  literature,  and  became  a  despot  to 
his  own  haughty  spirit,  instead  of  domineering  over  those  of 
others. 

We  have  selected  his  three  masterpieces,  though  he,  to 
himself  an  inexorable  critic,  has  shown  no  indulgence  to  his 
own  works,  and  the  least  successful  of  those  which  remain  to 
us,  Maria  Stuarda,  is  marked  by  great  excellence. 

Filippo  has  been  so  ably  depicted  in  a  work  now  well 
known,  "  Carlyle's  Life  of  Schiller,"  that  we  need  not  dwell 
upon  it.  All  the  light  of  the  picture,  the  softer  feelings  of 
the  hapless  Carlos  and  Elizabeth,  is  so  cast,  as  to  make  more 
visible  the  awing  darkness  of  the  tyrant's  perverted  mind, 
deadened  to  all  virtue  by  a  false  religion,  cold  and  hopeless 
as  the  dungeons  of  his  own  Inquisition,  and  relentless  as 
death.  Forced  by  the  magic  wand  of  genius  into  the  stifling 
precincts  of  this  mind,  horror-struck  that  we  must  sympathize 
with  such  a  state  as  possible  to  humanity,  we  rush  from  the 
contemplation  of  the  picture,  and  would  gladly  curtain  it  over 
in  our  hall  of  imagery  forever.  Yet  stigmatize  not  our  poet 
as  a  dark  master,  courting  the  shade,  and  hating  the  glad 
lights  which  love  and  hope  cast  upon  human  nature.  The 
drama  has  a  holy  meaning,  a  patriot  moral,  and  we,  above 
all,  should  reverence  him,  the  aristocrat  by  birth,  by  educa 
tion,  and  by  tastes,  whose  love  of  liberty  could  lead  him  to 
such  conclusions. 

In  "  Saul,"  a  bright  rainbow  rises,  by  the  aid  of  the  Sun  of 
Righteousness,  above  the  commotion  of  the  tempest.  David, 
the  faithful,  the  hopeful,  combining  the  sesthetic  culture,  the 
winged  inspiration  of  the  poet  with  the  noble  pride  of  Israel's 
chosen  warrior,  contrasts  finely  with  the  unfortunate  Saul,  his 
mind  darkened  and  convulsed  by  jealousy,  vain  regrets,  and 
fear  of  the  God  he  has  forgotten  how  to  love.  The  other 
three  actors  shade  in  the  picture  without  attracting  our  atten 
tion  from  the  two  principal  personages.  The  Hebrew  spirit 
breathes  through  the  whole.  The  beauty  of  the  lyric  effu- 


PHILIP   VAN   ARTEVELDE.  133 

sicms  is  so  generally  felt,  that  encomium  is  needless ;  we  shall 
only  observe  that  in  them  Alfieri's  style,  usually  so  severe, 
becomes  flexible,  melodious,  and  glowing ;  thus  we  may  easily 
perceive  what  he  might  have,  done,  had  not  the  simplicity  of 
his  genius  disdained  the  foreign  aid  of  ornament  upon  its 
Doric  proportions. 

Myrrha  is,  however,  the  highest  exertion  of  his  genius. 
The  remoteness  of  time  and  manners,  the  subject,  at  once  so 
hackneyed  and  so  revolting,  these  great  obstacles  he  seizes 
with  giant  grasp,  and  moulds  them  to  his  purpose.  Our 
souls  are  shaken  to  the  foundation ;  all  every-day  barriers  fall 
with  the  great  convulsion  of  passion.  We  sorrow,  we  sicken, 
we  die  with  the  miserable  girl,  so  pure  under  her  involuntary 
crime  of  feeling,  pursued  by  a  malignant  deity  in  her  soul's 
most  sacred  recesses,  torn  from  all  communion  with  humanity, 
and  the  virtue  she  was  framed  to  adore.  The  perfection  of 
plan,  the  matchless  skill  with  which  every  circumstance  is 
brought  out !  The  agonizing  rapidity  with  which  her  misery 
"  va  camminando  al  fine"!  No!  never  was  higher  tragic 
power  exhibited  ;  never  were  love,  terror,  pity,  fused  into  a 
more  penetrating  draught !  Myrrha  is  a  favorite  acting-play 
in  Italy  —  a  fact  inconceivable  to  an  English  or  American 
mind  ;  for  (to  say  nothing  of  other  objections)  we  should 
think  such  excess  of  emotion  unbearable.  But  in  those  me 
ridian  climes  they  drink  deep  draughts  of  passion  too  fre 
quently  to  taste  them  as  we  do. 

We  pass  to  works  of  far  inferior  power,  but  of  greater 
beauty.  We  have  selected  Iphigenia  and  Tasso  as  the  most 
finished  results  of  their  author's  mature  views  of  art.  On  his 
plays  in  the  Romantic  style,  we  shall  touch  in  another  place. 
If  any  one  ask  why  we  do  not  class  Faust  with  either,  we 
reply,  that  is  a  work  without  a  parallel ;  one  of  those  few 
originals  which  have  their  laws  within  themselves,  and  should 
always  be  discussed  singly. 

The  unity  of  plan  in  Iphigenia  is  perfect.  There  is  one 
12 


134  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

pervading  idea.  The  purity  of  Iphigenia's  mind  must  be 
kept  unsullied,  that  she  may  be  a  fit  intercessor  to  the  gods 
in  behalf  of  her  polluted  family.  Goethe,  in  his  travels  through 
Italy,  saw  a  picture  of  a  youthful  Christian  saint  —  Agatha, 
we  think  ;  struck  by  the  radiant  purity  of  her  expression,  he 
resolved  his  heathen  priestess  should  not  have  one  thought 
which  could  revolt  the  saint  of  the  true  religion.  This  idea 
is  wonderfully  preserved  throughout  a  drama  so  classic  in  its 
coloring  and  manners.  The  happiest  development  of  char 
acter,  an  interest  in  the  denouement  which  is  only  so  far  tem 
pered  by  our  trust  in  the  lovely  heroine,  as  to  permit  us  to 
enjoy  all  the  minuter  beauties  on  our  way,  (this  the  breath 
less  interest  of  Alfieri's  dramas  hardly  allows,  on  a  fourth  or 
fifth  reading,)  exquisite  descriptive  touches,  and  expressions 
of  sentiment,  unequalled  softness  and  harmony  of  style,  dis 
tinguish  a  drama  not  to  be  surpassed  in  its  own  department. 
Torquato  Tasso  *  is  of  inferior  general,  but  greater  particular 
beauty.  The  two  worldly,  the  two  higher  characters,  with 
that  of  Alphonso  halting  between,  are  shaded  with  equal  del 
icacy  and  distinctness.  The  inward-turning  imagination  of 
the  ill-fated  bard,  and  the  fantastic  tricks  it  plays  with  life, 
are  painted  as  only  a  poet's  soul  of  equal  depth,  of  greater 
versatility,  could  have  painted  them.  In  analysis  of  the  pas 
sions,  and  eloquent  descriptions  of  their  more  hidden  work 
ings,  some  parts  may  vie  with  Rousseau  ;  while  several  effu 
sions  of  feeling  are  worthy  of  Tasso's  own  lyre,  with  its 
"breaking  heartstring's  tone."  The  conduct  of  the  piece 
being  in  perfect  accordance  with  the  plan,  gives  the  sat 
isfaction  we  have  mentioned  in  speaking  of  Raphael's  Ma 
donna. 

Schiller's  Wallenstein  does  not  strictly  belong  to  this  class, 
yet  we  are  disposed  to  claim  it  as  observing  the  unities  of 

[*  For  a  translation  by  my  sister  of  this  Drama,  see  Part  III.  of  her 
"  Art,  Literature,  and  the  Drama,"  where  it  is  now,  for  the  first  time,  pub 
lished,  simultaneously  v.itli  the  appearance  of  this  volume.  —  ED.] 


PHILIP  VAN   ARTEVELDE.  135 

time  and  interest ;  the  latter  especially  is  entire,  notwith 
standing  the  many  actors  and  side-scenes  which  are  intro 
duced.  Numberless  touches  of  nature  arrest  our  attention, 
bright  lights  are  flashed  across  many  characters,  but  our 
interest,  momently  increasing,  is  for  Wallenstein  —  for  the 
perversion,  the  danger,  the  ruin  of  that  monarch  soul,  that  fall 
ing  son  of  the  morning.  Even  that  we  feel  in  Max,  with  his 
celestial  bloom  of  heart,  in  Thekla's  sweet  trustfulness,  is 
subsidiary.  This  work,  generally  known  to  the  reader  through 
Mr.  Coleridge's  translation,  affords  an  imperfect  illustration 
of  our  meaning.  Miss  Baillie's  plays  on  the  passions  hold  a 
middle  place.  Unity  of  purpose  there  is  —  no  unity  of  plan 
or  conduct.  Bold,  fine  outline  —  very  bad  coloring.  Pro 
found,  beautifully-expressed  reflections  on  the  passions —  utter 
want  of  skill  in  showing  them  out ;  a  thorough  feeling,  indeed, 
of  the  elements  of  tragedy,  —  had  but  the  vitalizing  energy 
been  added.  Her  plays  are  failures  ;  but  since  she  has  given 
us  nothing  else,  we  cannot  but  rejoice  in  having  these.  'Tis 
great  pity  that  the  authoress  of  De  Montfort  and  Basil  should 
not  have  attempted  a  narrative  poem. 

Coleridge  and  Byron  are  signal  instances  how  peculiar  is 
the  kind  of  talent  required  for  the  drama ;  one  a  philoso 
pher,  both  men  of  great  genius  and  uncommon  mastery  over 
language,  both  conversant  with  each  side  of  human  nature, 
both  considering  the  drama  in  its  true  light  as  one  of  the 
highest  departments  of  literature,  both  utterly  wanting  in  sim 
plicity,  pathos,  truth  of  passion  and  liveliness  of  action  —  in 
that  thrilling  utterance  of  heart  to  heart,  whose  absence  here, 
no  other  excellence  can  atone  for.  Of  Maturin  and  Knowles 
we  do  not  speak,  because  theirs,  though  very  good  acting 
plays,  are  not,  like  Mr.  Taylor's,  written  for  the  closet ;  of 
Milman,  because  not  sufficiently  acquainted  with  his  plays. 
We  would  here  pay  a  tribute  to  our  countryman  Hillhouse, 
whose  Hadad,  read  at  a  very  early  age,  we  remember  with 
much  delight.  Probably  our  judgment  now  might  be  differ- 


136  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

ent ;  but  a  work  which  could  make  so  deep  an  impression  on 
any  age,  must  have  genius.  We  are  sorry  we  have  never 
since  met  it  in  any  library  or  parlor,  and  are  not  competent 
to  speak  of  it  more  particularly. 

It  will  be  seen  that  Mr,  Taylor  has  not  attempted  the  sort 
of  dramatic  poetry  which  we  consider  the  highest,  but  has 
labored  in  that  which  the  great  wizard  of  Avon  adopted, 
because  it  lay  nearest  at  hand  to  clothe  his  spells  withal,  and 
consecrated  it,  with  his  world-embracing  genius,  to  the  (in 
our  judgment)  no  small  detriment  of  his  country's  taste. 
Having  thus  declared  that  we  cannot  grant  him  our  very 
highest  meed  of  admiration,  (though  we  will  not  say  that  he 
might  not  win  it  if  he  made  the  essay,)  we  hasten  to  meet 
him  on  his  own  ground.  "  Dramatica  Poesis  est  veluti  His- 
toria  spectabilis,"  is  his  motto,  taken  from  Bacon,  who  formed 
his  taste  on  Shakspeare.  We  would  here  mention  that 
Goethe's  earlier  works,  Go3tz  von  Berlichingen  and  Egmont 
are  of  this  school  —  brilliant  fragments  of  past  days,  ballads 
acted  out.  historical  scenes  and  personages  clustered  round  a 
hero  ;  and  we  have  seen  that  his  ripened  taste  preferred  the 
form  of  Iphigenia  and  Tasso. 

We  cannot  too  strongly  express  our  approbation  of  the 
opinions  maintained  in  his  short  preface  to  this  work.  We 
rejoice  to  see  a  leader  coming  forward  who  is  likely  to 
un-Hemansize  and  un-Cornwallize  literature.  We  too  have 
been  sick,  we  too  have  been  intoxicated  with  words  till  we 
could  hardly  appreciate  thoughts  ;  perhaps  our  present  writ 
ing  shows  traces  of  this  Lower-Empire  taste  ;  but  we  have 
sense  enough  left  to  welcome  the  English  Phocion,  who  would 
regenerate  public  feeling.  The  candor  and  modest  dignity 
with  which  these  opinions  are  offered  charm  us.  The  re 
marks  upon  Shelley,  whom  we  have  loved,  and  do  still  love 
passing  well,  brought  truth  home  to  us  in  a  definite  shape. 
With  regard  to  the  lowness  of  Lord  Byron's  standard  of 
character,  every  thing  indeed  has  been  said  which  could  be, 


PHILIP   VAN   ARTEVELDE.  137 

but  not  as  Mr.  Taylor  has  said  it ;  and  we  opine  that  his 
refined  and  gentle  remarks  will  find  their  way  to  ears  which 
have  always  been  deaf  to  the  harsh  sarcasms  unseasoned  by 
wit,  which  have  been  current  on  this  topic. 

Our  author  too,  notwithstanding  his  modest  caveat,  has 
acted  upon  his  principles,  and  furnished  a  forcible  illustration 
of  their  justice.  For  dignity  of  sentiment,  for  simplicity  of 
manner,  for  truth  to  life,  never  infringing  upon  respect  for 
the  ideal,  we  look  to  such  a  critic,  and  we  are  not  disap 
pointed. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  Ghent,  in  the  fourteenth  century.  The 
Flemish  mobocracy  are  brought  before  us  with  a  fidelity  and 
animation  surpassing  those  displayed  in  Egmont.  Their  bar 
barism,  and  the  dissimilar,  but  not  inferior  barbarism  of  their 
would-be  lords,  the  bold,  bad  men,  the  shameless  crime  and 
brainless  tumult  of  those  days,  live  before  us.  Amid  these 
clashing  elements  moves  Philip  Van  Artevelde,  with  the 
presence,  not  of  a  god,  but  of  a  great  man,  too  superior  to 
be  shaken,  too  wise  to  be  shocked  by  their  rude  jarrings. 
He  becomes  the  leader  of  his  people,  and  despite  pestilence, 
famine,  and  their  own  untutored  passions,  he  leads  them  on 
to  victory  and  power. 

In  the  second  part  we  follow  Van  Artevelde  from  his  zenith 
of  glory  to  his  decline.  The  tarnishing  influence  of  prosperity 
on  his  spirit,  and  its  clear  radiance  again  in  adversity,  are 
managed  as  the  noble  and  well-defined  conception  of  the 
character  deserves. 

The  boy  king  and  his  courtly,  intriguing  counsellors  are 
as  happily  portrayed  as  Vauclaire  and  the  fierce  commonalty 
he  ruled,  or  resisted  with  rope  or  sword,  as  the  case  might 
demand. 

The  two  loves  of  Van  Artevelde  are  finely  imagined,  as 

types  of  the  two  states  of  his  character.      Both  are  lovely ; 

the  one  how  elevated !   the  other  how   pity-moving  in  her 

loveliness !      On    the    interlude    of    Elena    we    must    be 

12* 


138  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

allowed  to  linger  fondly,  though  the  author's  self  condemn 
our  taste. 

We  are  no  longer  partial  to  the  machinery  of  portents  and 
presentiments.  Wallenstein's  were  the  last  we  liked,  but  Van 
Artevelde's  make  good  poetry,  and  have  historical  vouchers. 
They  remind  us  of  those  of  Fergus  Mac  Ivor. 

We  shall  extract  a  speech  of  Van  Artevelde's,  in  which  a 
leading  idea  of  the  work  is  expressed. 

Father,  — 

So  !  with  the  chivalry  of  Christendom 
I  wage  my  war,  —  no  nation  for  my  friend, 
Yet  in  each  nation  having  hosts  of  friends. 
The  bondsmen  of  the  world,  that  to  their  lords 
Are  bound  with  chains  of  iron,  unto  me 
Are  knit  by  their  affections.     Be  it  so. 
From  kings  and  nobles  will  I  seek  no  more 
Aid,  friendship,  or  alliance.     With  the  poor 
I  make  my  treaty ;  and  the  heart  of  man 
Sets  the  broad  seal  of  its  allegiance  there, 
And  ratifies  the  compact.     Vassals,  serfs, 
Ye  that  are  bent  with  unrequited  toil, 
Ye  that  have  whitened  in  the  dungeon's  darkness, 
Through  years  that  know  not  change  of  night  nor  day, 
Tatterdemalions,  lodgers  in  the  hedge, 
Lean  beggars  with  raw  backs,  and  rumbling  maws, 
Whose  poverty  was  whipped  for  starving  you,  — 
I  hail  you  my  auxiliars  and  allies, 
The  only  potentates  whose  help  I  crave  ! 
Richard  of  England,  thou  hast  slain  Jack  Straw, 
But  thou  hast  left  unquenched  the  vital  spark 
That  set  Jack  Straw  on  fire.    The  spirit  lives  ; 
And  as  when  he  of  Canterbury  fell, 
His  seat  was  filled  by  some  no  better  clerk, 
So  shall  John  Ball,  that  slew  him,  be  replaced. 


PHILIP   VAN   ARTEVBLDE.  139 

Fain  would  we  extract  Van  Artevelde's  reply  to  the  French 
envoy  —  the  oration  of  the  dying  Van  den  Bosch  in  the  mar 
ket-place  of  Ypres,  the  last  scene  between  the  hero  and  the 
double-dyed  dastard  and  traitor,  Sir  Heurant  of  Heurlee,  and 
many,  many  more,  had  we  but  space  enough. 

We  have  purposely  avoided  telling  the  story,  as  is  usual  in 
an  article  of  this  kind,  because  we  wish  that  every  one  should 
buy  and  read  Van  Artevelde,  instead  of  resting  content  with 
the  canvas  side  of  the  carpet. 

A  few  words  more,  and  we  shall  conclude  these,  we  fear, 
already  too  prolonged  remarks.  We  would  compare  Mr. 
Taylor  with  the  most  applauded  of  living  dramatists,  the 
Italian  Alessandro  Manzoni. 

To  wide  and  accurate  historical  knowledge,  to  purity  of 
taste,  to  the  greatest  elevation  of  sentiment,  Manzoni  unites 
uncommon  lyric  power,  and  a  beautiful  style  in  the  most 
beautiful  language  of  the  modern  world.  The  conception 
of  both  his  plays  is  striking,  the  detached  beauties  of  thought 
and  imagery  are  many ;  but  where  are  the  life,  the  glow,  the 
exciting  march  of  action,  the  thorough  display  of  character 
which  charm  us  in  Van  Artevelde  ?  We  live  at  Ghent  and 
Senlis  ;  we  think  of  Italy.  Van  Artevelde  dies,  —  and  our 
hearts  die  with  him.  When  Elena  says,  "  The  body,  —  O  ! " 
we  could  echo  that  "  long,  funereal  note,"  and  weep  as  if  the 
sun  of  heroic  nobleness  were  quenched  from  our  t>wn  horizon. 
"  Carmagnola,  Adelchis  die,"  —  we  calmly  shut  the  book,  and 
think  how  much  we  have  enjoyed  it.  Manzoni  can  deeply 
feel  goodness  and  greatness,  but  he  cannot  localize  them  in 
the  contours  of  life  before  our  eyes.  His  are  capital  sketches, 
poems  of  a  deep  meaning,  —  but  this,  yes  !  this  is  a  drama. 

We  cannot  conclude  more  fitly,  nor  inculcate  a  precept  on 
the  reader  more  forcibly,  than  in  Mr.  Taylor's  own  words, 
with  a  slight  alteration :  "  To  say  that  I  admire  him  is  to 
admit  that  I  owe  him  much  ;  for  admiration  is  never  thrown 
away  upon  the  mind  of  him  who  feels  it,  except  when  it  is 


140  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

misdirected  or  blindly  indulged.  There  is  perhaps  nothing 
which  more  enlarges  or  enriches  the  mind  than  the  disposi 
tion  to  lay  it  genially  open  to  impressions  of  pleasure,  from 
the  exercise  of  every  species  of  talent ;  nothing  by  which  it 
is  more  impoverished  than  the  habit  of  undue  depreciation. 
What  is  puerile,  pusillanimous,  or  wicked,  it  can  do  us  no 
good  to  admire ;  but  let  us  admire  all  that  can  be  admired 
without  debasing  the  dispositions  or  stultifying  the  under 
standing." 


UNITED   STATES   EXPLORING   EXPEDITION. 

SLIGHT  as  the  intercourse  held  by  the  Voyager  with  the 
South  Sea  Islands  is,  his  narrative  is  always  more  prized  by 
us  than  those  of  the  missionary  and  traders,  who,  though  they 
have  better  opportunity  for  full  and  candid  observation,  rarely 
use  it  so  well,  because  their  minds  are  biased  towards  their 
special  objects.  It  is  deeply  interesting  to  us  to  know  how 
much  and  how  little  God  has  accomplished  for  the  various 
nations  of  the  larger  portion  of  the  earth,  before  they  are 
brought  into  contact  with  the  civilization  of  Europe  and  the 
Christian  religion.  To  suppose  it  so  little  as  most  people  do, 
is  to  impugn  the  justice  of  Providence.  We  see  not  how  any 
one  can  contentedly  think  that  such  vast  multitudes  of  living 
souls  have  been  left  for  thousands  of  years  without  manifold 
and  great  means  of  instruction  and  happiness.  To  appreciate 
justly  how  much  these  have  availed  them,  to  know  how  far 
they  are  competent  to  receive  new  benefits,  is  essential  to  the 
philanthropist  as  a  means  of  aiding  them,  no  less  than  it  is 
important  to  the  philosopher  who  wishes  to  see  the  universe 
as  God  made  it,  not  as  some  men  think  he  ought  to  have 
made  it. 

The  want  of  correct  knowledge,  and  a  fair  appreciation  of 
the  uncultivated  man  as  he  stands,  is  a  cause  why  even  the 
good  and  generous  fail  to  aid  him,  and  contact  with  Europe 
has  proved  so  generally  more  of  a  curse  than  a  blessing.  It 
is  easy  enough  to  see  why  our  red  man,  to  whom  the  white 
extends  the  Bible  or  crucifix  with  one  hand,  and  the  rum- 
bottle  with  the  other,  should  look  upon  Jesus  as  only  one 
more  Manitou,  and  learn .  nothing  from  his  precepts  or  the 

(141) 


142  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

civilization  connected  with  'them.  The  Hindoo,  the  South 
American  Indian,  who  knew  their  teachers  first  as  powerful 
robbers,  and  found  themselves  called  upon  to  yield  to  violence 
not  only  their  property,  personal  freedom,  and  peace,  but  also 
the  convictions  and  ideas  that  had  been  rooted  and  growing  in 
their  race  for  ages,  could  not  be  otherwise  than  degraded  and 
stupefied  by  a  change  effected  through  such  violence  and  con 
vulsion.  But  not  only  those  who  came  with  fire  and  sword, 
crying,  "  Believe  or  die  ;  "  "  Understand  or  we  will  scourge 
you  ;  "  "  Understand  and  we  will  only  plunder  and  tyrannize 
over  you,"  —  not  only  these  ignorant  despots,  self-deceiving 
robbers,  have  failed  to  benefit  the  people  they  dared  estee'm 
more  savage  than  themselves,  but  the  worthy  and  generous 
have  failed  from  want  of  patience  and  an  expanded  intelli 
gence.  Would  you  speak  to  a  man  ?  first  learn  his  language. 
Would  you  have  the  tree  grow  ?  learn  the  nature  of  the  soil 
and  climate  in  which  you  plant  it.  Better  days  are  coming, 
we  do  hope,  as  to  these  matters  —  days  in  which  the  new 
shall  be  harmonized  with  the  old,  rather  than  violently  rent 
asunder  from  it;  when  progress  shall  be  accomplished  by 
gentle  evolution,  as  the  stem  of  the  plant  grows  up,  rather 
than  by  the  blasting  of  rocks,  and  blindness  or  death  of  the 
miners. 

The  knowledge  which  can  lead  to  such  results  must  be  col 
lected,  as  all  true  knowledge  is,  from  the  love  of  it.  In  the 
healthy  state  of  the  mind,  the  state  of  elastic  youth,  which 
would  be  perpetual  in  the  mind  if  it  were  nobly  disciplined 
and  animated  by  immortal  hopes,  it  likes  to  learn  just  how  the 
facts  are,  seeking  truth  for  its  own  sake,  not  doubting  that  the 
design  and  cause  will  be  made  clear  in  time.  A  mind  in  such 
a  state  will  find  many  facts  ready  for  its  use  in  these  volumes 
relative  to  the  South  Sea  Islanders,  and  other  objects  of 
interest. 


STORY-BOOKS   FOR  THE   HOT   WEATHER. 

DOES  any  shame  still  haunt  the  age  of  bronze  —  a  shame, 
the  lingering  blush  of  an  heroic  age,  at  being  caught  in  doing 
any  thing  merely  for  amusement?  Is  there  a  public  still 
extant  which  needs  to  excuse  its  delinquencies  by  the  story 
of  a  man  who  liked  to  lie  on  the  sofa  all  day  and  read  novels, 
though  he  could,  at  time  of  need,  write  the  gravest  didactics  ? 
Live  they  still,  those  reverend  seigniors,  the  object  of  secret 
smiles  to  our  childish  years,  who  were  obliged  to  apologize 
for  midnight  oil  spent  in  conning  story-books  by  the  "  historic 
bearing  "  of  the  novel,  or  the  "  correct  and  admirable  descrip 
tions  of  certain  countries,  with  climate,  scenery,  and  manners 
therein  contained,"  wheat,  for  which  they,  industrious  students, 
were  willing  to  winnow  bushels  of  frivolous  love-adventures  ? 
We  know  not,  but  incline  to  think  the  world  is  now  given 
over  to  frivolity  so  far  as  to  replace  by  the  novel  the  min 
strel's  ballad,  the  drama,  and  even  those  games  of  agility  and 
strength  in  which  it  once  sought  pastime.  For,  indeed,  mere 
pass-time  is  sometimes  needed ;  the  nursery  legend  comprised 
a  primitive  truth  of  the  understanding  and  the  wisdom  of  na 
tions  in  the  lines, — 

"  All  play  and  no  work  makes  Jack  a  mere  toy, 
But  all  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy." 

We  have  reversed  the  order  of  arrangement  to  suit  our 
present  purpose.  For  we,  O  useful  reader !  being  ourselves 
so  far  of  the  useful  class  as  to  be  always  wanted  somewhere, 
have  also  to  fight  a  good  fight  for  our  amusements,  either 
with  the  foils  of  excuse,  like  the  reverend  seigniors  above 

(143; 


144  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

mentioned,  or  with  the  sharp  weapons  of  argument,  or  main 
tenance  of  a  view  of  our  own  without  argument,  which  we 
take  to  be  the  sharpest  weapon  of  all. 

Thus  far  do  we  defer  to  the  claims  of  the  human  race,  with 
its  myriad  of  useful  errands  to  be  done,  that  we  read  most  of 
our  novels  in  the  long  sunny  days,  which  call  all  beings  to 
chirp  and  nestle,  or  fly  abroad  as  the  birds  do,  and  permit  the 
very  oxen  to  ruminate  gently  in  the  just-mown  fields. 

On  such  days  it  was  well,  we  think,  to  read  "  Sybil,  or  the 
Two  Worlds."  We  have  always  felt  great  interest  in  D'lsra- 
eli.  He  is  one  of  the  many  who  share  the  difficulty  of  our 
era,  which  Carlyle  says,  quoting,  we  believe,  from  his  Master, 
consists  'in  unlearning  the  false  in  order  to  arrive  at  the  true. 
We  think  these  men,  when  they  have  once  taken  their  degree, 
can  be  of  far  greater  use  to  their  brethren  than  those  who 
have  always  kept  their  instincts  unperverted. 

In  "  Vivian  Grey,"  the  young  D'Israeli,  an  educated  Eng 
lishman,  but  with  the  blood  of  sunnier  climes  glowing  and 
careering  in  his  veins,  gave  us  the  very  flower  and  essence  of 
factitious  life.  That  book  sparkled  and  frothed  like  cham 
pagne  ;  like  that,  too,  it  produced  no  dull  and  imbecile  state 
by  its  intoxication,  but  one  witty,  genial,  spiritual  even.  A 
deep,  soft  melancholy  thrilled  through  its  gay  mockeries  ;  the 
eyes  of  nature  glimmered  through  the  painted  mask,  and  a 
nobler  ambition  was  felt  beneath  the  follies  of  petty  success 
and  petty  vengeance.  Still,  the  chief  merit  of  the  book,  as  a 
book,  was  the  light  and  decided  touch  with  which  its  author 
took  up  the  follies  and  poesies  of  the  day,  and  brought  them 
all  before  us.  The  excellence  of  the  foreign  part,  with  its 
popular  superstitions,  its  deep  passages  in  the  glades  of  the 
summer  woods,  and  above  all,  the  capital  sketch  of  the  prime 
minister  with  his  original  whims  and  secret  history  of  roman 
tic  sorrows,  were  beyond  the  appreciation  of  most  readers. 

Since  then,  D'Israeli  has  never  written  any  thing  to  be 
compared  with  this  first  jet  of  the  fountain  of  his  mind  in  the 


STORY-BOOKS    FOR  THE   HOT   WEATHER.  145 

sunlight  of  morning.  The  "  Young  Duke  "  was  full  of  bril 
liant  sketches,  and  showed  a  soul  struggling,  blinded  by  the 
gaudy  mists  of  fashion,  for  realities.  The  "  Wondrous  Tale 
of  Alroy  "  showed  great  power  of  conception,  though  in  exe 
cution  it  is  a  failure.  "  Henrietta  Temple  "  Mr.  Willis,  with 
his  usual  justness  of  perception,  has  praised,  as  containing  a 
collection  of  the  best  love-letters  ever  written;  and  which 
show  that  excellence,  signal  and  singular  among  the  literary 
tribe,  of  which  D'Israeli  never  fails,  of  daring  to  write  a  thing 
down  exactly  as  it  rises  in  his  mind. 

Now  he  has  come  to  be  a  leader  of  Young  England,  and  a 
rooted  plant  upon  her  soil.  If  the  performance  of  his  prime 
do  not  entirely  correspond  with  the  brilliant  lights  of  its  dawn, 
it  is  yet  aspiring,  and  with  a  large  kernel  of  healthy  nobleness 
in  it.  D'Israeli  shows  now  not  only  the  heart,  but  the  soul  of 
a  man.  He  cares  for  all  men  ;  he  wishes  to  care  wisely  for  all. 

"  Coningsby  "  was  full  of  talent,  yet  its  chief  interest  lay  in 
this  aspiration  after  reality,  and  the  rich  materials  taken  from 
contemporary  life.  There  is  nothing  in  it  good  after  the  origi 
nal  manner  of  D'Israeli,  except  the  sketches  of  Eton,  and 
above  all,  the  noble  schoolboy's  letter.  The  picture  of  the 
Jew,  so  elaborately  limned,  is  chiefly  valuable  as  affording 
keys  to  so  many  interesting  facts. 

"  Sybil"  is  an  attempt  to  do  justice  to  the  claims  of  the  la 
boring  classes,  and  investigate  the  duties  of  those  in  whose 
hands  the  money  is  at  present,  towards  the  rest.  It  comes  to 
no  result :  it  only  exhibits  some  truths  in  a  more  striking  light 
than  heretofore.  D'Israeli  shows  the  taint  of  old  prejudice 
in  the  necessity  he  felt  to  marry  the  daughter  of  the  people  to 
one  not  of  the  people.  Those  worthy  to  be  distinguished  must 
still  have  good  blood,  or  rather  old  blood,  for  what  is  called 
good  needs  now  to  be  renovated  from  a  homelier  source.  But 
his  leaders  must  have  old  blood ;  the  fresh  ichor,  the  direct 
flow  from  heaven,  is  not  enough  to  animate  their  lives  to  the 
deeds  now  needed. 
13 


146  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

D'Israeli  is  another  of  those  who  give  testimony  in  behalf 
of  our  favorite  idea  that  a  leading  feature  of  the  new  era  will 
be  in  new  and  higher  developments  of  the  feminine  character. 
He  looks  at  women  as  a  man  does  who  is  truly  in  love.  He 
does  not  paint  them  well,  that  is,  not  with  profound  fidelity  to 
nature.  But,  ideally,  he  sees  them  well,  for  they  are  to  him 
the  inspirers  and  representatives  of  what  is  holy,  tender,  and 
simply  great. 

There  are  good  sketches  of  the  manufacturers  at  home,  not 
the  overseers,  but  the  real  makers. 

Sue  is  a  congenial  activity  with  D'Israeli,  but  with  clearer 
notions  of  what  he  wants.  His  "  De  Rohan  "  is  a  poor  book, 
though  it  contains  some  things  excellent.  But  it  is  faulty,  — 
even  more  so  than  is  usual  with  him,  in  heavy  exaggerations, 
and  is  less  redeemed  by  brilliant  effects,  good  schemes,  and 
lively  strains  of  feeling.  The  wish  to  unmask  Louis  XIV. 
is  defeated  by  the  hatred  with  which  the  character  inspired 
him,  the  liberal  of  the  nineteenth  century.  The  Grand 
Monarque  was  really  brutally  selfish  and  ignorant,  as  Sue 
represents  him  ;  but  then  there  was  a  native  greatness  which 
justified,  in  some  degree,  the  illusion  he  diffused,  and  which 
falsifies  all  Sue's  representation.  It  is  not  by  an  inventory 
of  facts  or  traits  that  what  is  most  vital  in  character,  and 
which  makes  its  due  impression  on  contemporaries,  can  be 
apprehended  or  depicted.  "  De  Rohan  "  is  worth  reading  for 
particulars  of  an  interesting  period,  put  together  with  accuracy 
and  with  a  sense  of  physiological  effects,  if  not  of  the  spiritual 
realities  that  they  represented. 

"  Self,  by  the  Author  of  Cecil,"  is  one  of  the  worst  of  a 
paltry  class  of  novels  —  those  which  aim  at  representing  the 
very  dregs  in  a  social  life,  now  at  its  lowest  ebb.  If  it  has 
produced  a  sensation,  that  only  shows  the  poverty  of  life 
among  those  who  can  be  interested  in  it.  I  have  known  more 
life  lived  in  a  day  among  factory  girls,  or  in  a  village  school, 
than  informs  these  volumes,  with  all  their  great  pretension 


STORY-BOOKS   FOR   THE   HOT   WEATHER.  147 

and  affected  vivacity.  It  is  not  worth  our  while  to  read  this 
class  of  English  novels ;  they  are  far  worse  than  the  French, 
morally  as  well  as  mentally.  This  has  no  merits  as  to  the 
development  of  character  or  exposition  of  motives ;  it  is  a 
poor,  external,  lifeless  thing. 

"  Dashes  at  Life/'  by  N.  P.  Willis.  The  life  of  Mr.  Willis 
is  too  European  for  him  to  have  a  general  or  permanent  lame 
in  America.  We  need  a  life  of  our  own,  and  a  literature  of 
our  own.  Those  writers  who  are  dearest  to  us,  and  really 
most  interesting,  are  those  who  are  at  least  rooted  to  the  soil. 
If  they  are  not  great  enough  to  be  the  prophets  of  the  new 
era,  they  at  least  exhibit  the  features  of  their  native  clime, 
and  the  complexion  given  by  its  native  air.  But  Mr.  Willis 
is  a  son  of  Europe,  and  his  writings  can  interest  only  the 
fashionable  world  of  this  country,  which,  by  imitating  Europe, 
fails  entirely  of  a  genius,  grace,  and  invention  of  its  own. 
Still,  in  their  way,  they  are  excellent.  They  are  most  lively 
pictures,  showing  the  fine  natural  organization  of  the  writer, 
on  whom  none,  the  slightest  symptom  of  what  he  is  looking 
for,  is  thrown  away ;  sparkling  with  bold,  light  wit,  succinct, 
and  colored  with  glow,  and  for  a  full  light.  Some  of  them 
were  new  to  us,  and  we  read  them  through,  missing  none  of 
the  words,  and  laughed  with  a  full  heart,  and  without  one 
grain  of  complaisance,  which  is  much,  very  much,  to  say  in 
these  days.  We  said  these  sketches  would  not  have  a  perma 
nent  fame,  and  yet  we  may  be  wrong.  The  new,  full,  original, 
radiant,  American  life  may  receive  them  as  an  heirloom 
from  this  transition  state  we  are  in  now,  and  future  generations 
may  stare  at  the  mongrel  products  of  Saratoga,  and  maidens 
still  laugh  till  they  cry  at  the  "  Letter  of  Jane  S.  to  her  Spirit- 
Bridegroom." 

All  these  story-books  show,  even  to  the  languor  of  the  hot 
test  day,  the  solemn  signs  of  revolution.  Life  has  become  too 
factitious  ;  it  has  no  longer  a  leg  left  to  stand  upon,  and  can 
not  be  carried  much  farther  in  this  way.  England  —  ah !  who 


148  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

can  resist  visions  of  phalansteries  in  every  park,  and  the 
treasures  of  art  turned  into  public  galleries  for  the  use  of  the 
artificers  who  will  no  longer  be  unwashed,  but  raised  and 
educated  by  the  refinements  of  sufficient  leisure,  and  the  in 
structions  of  genius.  England  must  glide,  or  totter,  or  fall 
into  revolution ;  there  is  not  room  for  such  selfish  elves, 
and  unique  young  dukes,  in  a  country  so  crowded  with  men, 
and  with  those  who  ought  to  be  women,  and  are  turned  into 
work-tools.  There  are  very  impressive  hints  on  this  last  topic 
in  "  Sybil,  or  the  Two  Worlds,"  (of  the  rich  and  poor.)  God 
has  time  to  remember  the  design  with  which  he  made  this 
world  also. 


SHELLEY'S   POEMS* 

WE  are  very  glad  to  see  this  handsome  copy  of  Shelley 
ready  for  those  who  have  long  been  vainly  inquiring  at  all  the 
bookstores  for  such  a  one. 

In  Europe  the  fame  of  Shelley  has  risen  superior  to  the 
clouds  that  darkened  its  earlier  days,  hiding  his  true  image 
from  his  fellow-men,  and  from  his  own  sad  eyes  oftentimes 
the  common  light  of  day.  As  a  thinker,  men  have  learned 
to  pardon  what  they  consider  errors  in  opinion  for  the  sake 
of  singular  nobleness,  purity,  and  love  in  his  main  tendency  or 
spirit.  As  a  poet,  the  many  faults  of  his  works  having  been 
acknowledged,  there  are  room  and  place  to  admire  his  far  more 
numerous  and  exquisite  beauties. 

The  heart  of  the  man,  few,  who  have  hearts  of  their  own, 
refuse  to  reverence,  and  many,  even  of  devoutest  Christians, 
would  not  refuse  the  book  which  contains  Queen  Mab  as  a 
Christmas  gift.  For  it  has  been  recognized  that  the  founder 
of  the  Christian  church  would  have  suffered  one  to  come 
unto  him,  who  was  in  faith  and  love  so  truly  what  he  sought 
in  a  disciple,  without  regard  to  the  form  his  doctrine  assumed. 

The  qualities  of  his  poetry  have  often  been  analyzed,  and 
the  severer  critics,  impatient  of  his  exuberance,  or  unable  to 
use  their  accustomed  spectacles  in  the  golden  mist  that  broods 
over  all  he  has  done,  deny  him  high  honors ;  but  the  soul  of 
aspiring  youth,  untrammelled  by  the  canons  of  taste,  and  un 
tamed  by  scholarly  discipline,  swells  into  rapture  at  his  lyric 
sweetness,  finds  ambrosial  refreshment  from  his  plenteous 

*  The  Poetical  Works  of  Percy  Bysche  Shelley.    First  American  edition, 
(complete.)    With  a  Biographical  and  Critical  Notice,  by  G.  G.  Foster. 
13  *  (149) 


150  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

fancies,  catches  fire  at  his  daring  thought,  and  melts  into 
boundless  weeping  at  his  tender  sadness  —  the  sadness  of  a 
soul  betrothed  to  an  ideal  unattainable  in  this  present  sphere. 

For  ourselves,  we  dispute  not  with  the  doctrinaires  or  the 
critics.  We  cannot  speak  dispassionately  of  an  influence  that 
has  been  so  dear  to  us.  Nearer  than  the  nearest  companions 
of  life  actual  has  Shelley  been  to  us.  Many  other  great  ones 
have  shone  upon  us,  and  all  who  ever  did  so  shine  are  still 
resplendent  in  our  firmament,  for  our  mental  life  has  not  been 
broken  and  contradictory,  but  thus  far  we  "  see  what  we  fore 
saw."  But  Shelley  seemed  to  us  an  incarnation  of  what  was 
sought  in  the  sympathies  and  desires  of  instinctive  life,  a  light 
of  dawn,  and  a  foreshowing  of  the  weather  of  this  day. 

When  still  in  childish  years,  the  "  Hymn  to  Intellectual 
Beauty  "  fell  in  our  way.  In  a  green  meadow,  skirted  by  a 
rich  wood,  watered  by  a  lovely  rivulet,  made  picturesque  by 
a  mill  a  little  farther  down,  sat  a  party  of  young  persons 
gayer  than,  and  almost  as  inventive,  as  those  that  told  the  tales 
recorded  by  Boccaccio.  They  were  passing  a  few  days  in  a 
scene  of  deep  seclusion,  there  uncared  for  by  tutor  or  duenna, 
and  with  no  bar  of  routine  to  check  the  pranks  of  their  gay, 
childish  fancies.  Every  day  they  assumed  parts  which  through 
the  waking  hours  must  be  acted  out.  One  day  it  was  the 
characters  in  one  of  Richardson's  novels ;  and  most  solemnly 
we  "  my  deared  "  each  other  with  richest  brocade  of  affability, 
and  interchanged  in  long,  stiff  phrase  our  sentimental  secrets 
and  prim  opinions.  But  to-day  we  sought  relief  in  person 
ating  birds  or  insects ;  and  now  it  was  the  Libellula  who,  tired 
of  wild  flitting  and  darting,  rested  on  the  grassy  bank  and 
read  aloud  the  "  Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty,"  torn  by 
chance  from  the  leaf  of  a  foreign  magazine. 

It  was  one  of  those  chances  which  we  ever  remember  as 
the  interposition  of  some  good  angel  in  our  fate.  Solemn 
tears  marked  the  change  of  mood  in  our  little  party,  and  with 
the  words 

"  Have  I  not  kept  my  vow  ?  " 


151 

began  a  chain  of  thoughts  whose  golden  links  still  bind  the 
years  together. 

Two  or  three  years  passed.  The  frosty  Christmas  season 
came ;  the  trees  cracked  with  their  splendid  burden  of  ice,  the 
old  wooden  country  house  was  banked  up  with  high  drifts  of  the 
beautiful  snow,  and  the  Libellula  became  the  owner  of  Shel 
ley's  Poems.  It  was  her  Christmas  gift,  and  for  three  days 
and  three  nights  she  ceased  not  to  extract  its  sweets ;  and  how 
familiar  still  in  memory  every  object  seen  from  the  chair  in 
which  she  sat  enchanted  during  those  three  days,  memorable 
to  her  as  those  of  July  to  the  French  nation  !  The  fire,  the 
position  of  the  lamp,  the  variegated  shadows  of  that  alcoved 
room,  the  bright  stars  up  to  which  she  looked  with  such  a  feel 
ing  of  congeniality  from  the  contemplation  of  this  starry  soul, 
—  O,  could  but  a  De  Quincey  describe  those  days  in  which  the 
bridge  between  the  real  and  ideal  rose  unbroken !  He  would 
not  do  it,  though,  as  Suspiria  de  Profundis,  but  as  sighs  of 
joy  upon  the  mountain  height. 

The  poems  we  read  then  are  what  every  one  still  reads,  the 
"  Julian  and  Maddalo,"  with  its  profound  revelations  of  the 
inward  life ;  "  Alastor,"  the  soul  sweeping  like  a  breeze 
through  nature ;  and  some  of  the  minor  poems.  "  Queen 
Mab,"  the  "  Prometheus,"  and  other  more  formal  works  we 
have  not  been  able  to  read  much.  It  was  not  when  he  tried 
to  express  opinions  which  the  wrongs  of  the  world  had  put 
into  his  head,  but  when  he  abandoned  himself  to  the  feelings 
which  nature  had  implanted  in  his  own  breast,  that  Shelley 
seemed  to  us  so  full  of  inspiration,  and  it  is  so  still. 

In  reply  to  all  that  can  be  urged  against  him  by  people  of 
whom  we  do  not  wish  to  speak  ill,  —  for  surely  "  they  know  not 
what  they  do,"  —  we  are  wont  simply  to  refer  to  the  fact  that  he 
was  the  only  man  who  redeemed  the  human  race  from  suspicion 
to  the  embittered  soul  of  Byron.  "  Why,"  said  Byron,  "  he  is  a 
man  who  would  willingly  die  for  others.  I  am  sure  of  it" 

Yes  !  balance  that  against  all  the  ill  you  can  think  of  him. 


152  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

that  he  was  a  man  able  to  live  wretched  for  the  sake  of  speak 
ing  sincerely  what  he  supposed  to  be  truth,  willing  to  die  for 
the  good  of  his  fellows  ! 

Mr.  Foster  has  spoken  well  of  him  as  a  man :  "  Of  Shel 
ley's  personal  character  it  is  enough  to  say  that  it  was  wholly 
pervaded  by  the  same  unbounded  and  unquestioning  love  for 
his  fellow-men — the  same  holy  and  fervid  hope  in  their  ulti 
mate  virtue  and  happiness  —  the  same  scorn  of  baseness  and 
hatred  of  oppression  —  which  beam  forth  in  all  his  writings 
with  a  pure  and  constant  light.  The  theory  which  he  wrote 
was  the  practice  which  his  whole  life  exemplified.  Noble, 
kind,  generous,  passionate,  tender,  with  a  courage  greater  than 
the  courage  of  the  chief  of  warriors,  for  it  could  endure  — 
these  were  the  qualities  in  which  his  life  was  embalmed." 


FESTUS.* 

WE  are  right  glad  to  see  this  beloved  stranger  domesticated 
among  us.  Yet  there  are  queer  little  circumstances  that 
herald  the  introduction.  The  poet  is  a  barrister  at  law  !  — 
well !  it  is  always  worthy  of  note  when  a  man  is  not  hindered 
by  study  of  human  law  from  knowledge  of  divine ;  which 
last  is  all  that  concerns  the  poet.  Then  the  preface  to  the 
American  edition  closes  with  this  discreet  remark :  "  It  is 
perfectly  SAFE  to  pronounce  it  (the  poem)  one  of  the  most 
powerful  and  splendid  productions  of  the  age."  Dear  New 
England  !  how  purely  that  was  worthy  thee,  region  where  the 
tyranny  of  public  opinion  is  carried  to  a  perfection  of  minute 
scrutiny  beyond  what  it  ever  was  before  in  any  age  or  place, 
though  the  ostracism  be  administered  with  the  mildness  and 
refinement  fit  for  this  age.  Dear  New  England  !  yes !  it  is 
safe  to  say  that  the  poem  is  good ;  whatever  Mrs.  Grundy 
may  think,  she  will  not  have  it  burned  by  the  hangman  if  it  is 
not.  But  it  may  not  be  discreet,  because  she  can,  if  she  sees 
fit,  exile  its  presence  from  bookstores,  libraries,  centre  tables, 
and  all  mention  of  its  existence  from  lips  polite,  and  of  thine 
also,  who  hast  dared  to  praise  it,  on  peril  of  turning  all  sur 
rounding  eyes  to  lead  by  its  utterance.  This  kind  of  gentle 
excommunication  thou  mayst  not  be  prepared  to  endure,  O 
preface-writer  !  And  we  should  greatly  fear  that  thou  wert 
deceived  in  thy  fond  security,  for  "  Festus  "  is  a  bold  book  — 
in  respect  of  freedom  of  words,  a  boldest  book  —  also  it  re 
veals  the  solitudes  of  hearts  with  unexampled  sincerity,  and 

*  Festus :  A  Poem,  by  Philip  James  Bailey.  First  American  edition, 
Boston. 

(153) 


154  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

remorselessly  lays  bare  human  nature  in  its  naked  truth  — 
but  for  the  theology  of  the  book.  That  may  save  it,  and 
none  the  less  for  all  it  shows  of  the  depravity  of  human  na 
ture.  It  is  through  many  pages  and  leaves  what  is  techni 
cally  praised  as  "a  serious  book."  A  friend  went  into  a 
bookstore  to  select  presents  for  persons  with  whom  she  was 
about  to  part,  and  among  other  things  requested  the  shopman 
to  "  show  her  some  serious  books  in  handsome  binding."  He 
looked  into  several,  and  then,  struck  by  passages  here  and 
there,  offered  her  the  "  Letters  of  Lady  M.  W.  Montague." 
She  assuring  him  that  it  would  not  be  safe  to  make  use 
of  this  work,  he  offered  her  a  miniature  edition  of  Shak- 
speare,  as  "  a  book  containing  many  excellent  things,  though 
you  had  to  wade  through  a  great  deal  of  rubbish  to  get  at 
them." 

We  fear  the  reader  will  have  to  wade  through  a  great  deal  of 
"  rubbish  "  in  "  Festus  "  before  he  gets  at  the  theology.  How 
ever,  there  it  is,  in  sufficient  quantities  to  give  dignity  to  any 
book.  In  seriousness,  it  may  compete  with  Pollok's  "  Course 
of  Time."  In  "  splendor  and  power,"  we  feel  ourselves  safe 
in  saying  that,  as  sure  as  the  sun  shines,  it  cannot  be  outdone 
in  the  English  tongue,  thus  far,  short  of  Milton.  So  there  is 
something  for  all  classes  of  readers,  and  we  hope  it  will  get 
to  their  eyes,  albeit  Boston  books  are  not  likely  to  be  detected 
by  all  eyes  to  which  they  belong. 

To  ourselves  the  theology  of  this  writer,  and  the  conscious 
design  of  the  poem,  have  little  interest.  They  seem  to  us,  like 
the  color  of  his  skin  and  hair,  the  result  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  he  was  born.  Certain  opinions  came  in  his  way 
early,  and  became  part  of  the  body  of  his  thought.  But  what 
interests  us  is  not  these,  but  what  is  deepest,  universal  —  the 
soul  of  that  body.  To  us  the  poem  is 

"...  full  of  great  dark  meanings  like  the  sea ; " 


FESTUS.  155 

and  it  is  these,  the  deep  experiences  and  inspirations  of  the 
immortal  man,  that  engage  us. 

Even  the  proem  shows  how  large  is  his  nature  —  its  most 
careless  utterance  full  of  grandeur,  its  tamest  of  bold  noble 
ness.  This,  that  truly  engages  us,  he  spoke  of  more  forcibly 
when  the  book  first  went  forth  to  the  world  :  — 

"  Read  this,  world.     He  who  writes  is  dead  to  thee, 
But  still  lives  in  these  leaves.     He  spake  inspired  ; 
Night  and  day,  thought  came  unhelped,  undesired, 
Like  blood  to  his  heart.     The  course  of  study  he 
"Went  through  was  of  the  soul-rack.     The  degree 
He  took  was  high  ;  it  was  wise  wretchedness. 
He  suffered  perfectly,  and  gained  no  less 
A  prize  than,  in  his  own  torn  heart,  to  see 
A  few  bright  seeds  ;  he  sowed  them,  hoped  them  truth. 
The  autumn  of  that  seed  is  in  these  pages." 

Such  is,  in  our  belief,  the  true  theologian,  the  learner  of 
God,  who  does  not  presumptuously  expect  at  this  period  of 
growth  to  bind  down  all  that  is  to  be  known  of  divine  things 
in  a  system,  a  set  of  words,  but  considers  that  he  is  only  spell 
ing  the  first  lines  of  a  work,  whose  perusal  shall  last  him 
through  eternity.  Such  a  one  is  not  in  a  hurry  to  declare 
that  the  riddles  of  Fate  and  of  Time  are  solved,  for  he  knows 
it  is  not  calling  them  so  that  will  make  them  so.  His  soul 
does  not  decline  the  great  and  persevering  labors  that  are  to 
develop  its  energies.  He  has  faith  to  study  day  by  day. 
Such  is  the  practice  of  the  author  of  Festus,  whenever  he  is 
truly  great.  When  he  shows  to  us  the  end  and  plan  of  all 
things,  we  feel  that  he  only  hides  them  from  us.  He  speaks 
only  his  wishes.  But  when  he  tells  us  of  what  he  does  really 
know,  the  moods  and  aspirations  of  fiery  youth  to  which  all 
things  are  made  present  in  foresight  and  foretaste, —  when  he 
shows  us  the  temptations  of  the  lonely  soul  pining  for  knowl- 


156  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

edge,  but  unable  to  feel  the  love  that  alone  can  bestow  it,  — 
then  he  is  truly  great,  and  the  strings  of  life  thrill  oftentimes 
to  their  sublimest,  sweetest  music. 

We  admire  in  this  author  the  unsurpassed  force  and  dis 
tinctness  with  which  he  casts  out  single  thoughts  and  images. 
Each  is  thrown  before  us  fresh,  deep  in  its  impress  as  if  just 
snatched  from  the  forge.  We  admire  not  less  his  vast  flow, 
his  sustained  flight.  His  is  a  rich  and  spacious  genius ;  it 
gives  us  room ;  it  is  a  palace  home  ;  we  need  not  econo 
mize  our  joys ;  blessed  be  the  royalty  that  welcomes  us  so 
freely. 

In  simple  transposition  of  the  thought  from  the  mind  to  the 
paper,  that  wonder,  even  rarer  than  perfect, —  that  is,  simple 
expression,  through  the  motions  of  the  body,  of  the  motions 
of  the  soul,  —  we  dare  to  say  no  writer  excels  him.  Words 
are  no  veil  between  us  and  him,  but  a  luminous  cloud  that 
upbears  us  both  together. 

So  in  touches  of  nature,  in  the  tones  of  passion ;  he  is  abso 
lute.  There  is  nothing  better,  where  it  is  good ;  we  have  the 
very  thing  itself. 

We  are  told  by  the  critics  that  he  has  no  ear,  and,  indeed, 
when  we  listen  for  such,  we  perceive  blemishes  enough  in  the 
movement  of  his  line.  But  we  did  not  perceive  it  before, 
more  than,  when  the  JEolian  was  telling  the  secrets  of  that 
most  spirit-like  minister  of  Nature  that  bloweth  where  it 
listeth,  and  no  man  can  trace  it,  we  should  attempt  to  divide 
the  tones  and  pauses  into  regular  bars,  and  be  disturbed  when 
we  could  not  make  a  tune. 

England  has  only  two  poets  now  that  can  be  named  near 
him  :  these  two  are  Tennyson  and  the  author  of  "  Philip  Van 
Artevelde."  Tennyson  is  all  that  Bailey  is  not  in  melody  and 
voluntary  finish,  having  no  less  than  a  Greek  moderation  in 
declining  all  undertakings  he  is  not  sure  of  completing.  Tay 
lor,  noble,  an  earnest  seer,  a  faithful  narrator  of  what  he  sees, 
firm  and  sure,  sometimes  deep  and  exquisite,  but  in  energy 


FESTUS.  157 

and  grandeur  no  more  than  Tennyson  to  be  named  beside  the 
author  of  Festus.  In  inspiration,  in  prophecy,  in  those  flashes 
of  the  sacred  fire  which  reveal  the  secret  places  where  Time 
is  elaborating  the  marvels  of  Nature,  he  stands  alone.  It  is 
just  true  what  Ebenezer  Elliott  says,  that  "  Festus  contains 
poetry  enough  to  set  up  fifty  poets,"  —  ay  !  even  such  poets, 
so  far  as  richness  of  thought  and  imagery  are  concerned,  as 
the  two  noble  bards  we  have  named. 

But  we  need  call  none  less  to  make  him  greater,  whose 
liberal  soul  is  alive  to  every  shade  of  beauty,  every  token  of 
greatness,  and  whose  main  stress  is  to  seek  a  soul  of  good 
ness  in  things  evil.  The  book  is  a  precious,  even  a  sacred 
book,  and  we  could  say  more  of  it,  had  we  not  years  ago 
vented  our  enthusiasm  when  it  was  in  first  full  flow. 
14 


FRENCH  NOVELISTS   OF   THE   DAY.* 

WE  hear  much  lamentation  among  good  people  at  the  in 
troduction  of  so  many  French  novels  among  us,  corrupting, 
they  say,  our  youth  by  pictures  of  decrepit  vice  and  prurient 
crime,  such  as  would  never,  otherwise,  be  dreamed  of  here, 
and  corrupting  it  the  more  that  such  knowledge  is  so  preco 
cious  : —  for  the  same  reason  that  a  boy  may  be  more  deeply 
injured  by  initiation  into  wickedness  than  a  man,  for  he  is  not 
only  robbed  of  his  virtue,  but  prevented  from  developing  the 
strength  that  might  restore  it.  But  it  is  useless  to  bewail 
what  is  the  inevitable  result  of  the  movement  of  our  time. 
Europe  must  pour  her  corruptions,  no  less  than  her  riches,  on 
our  shores,  both  in  the  form  of  books  and  of  living  men.  She 
cannot,  if  she  would,  check  the  tide  which  bears  them  hither- 
ward  ;  no  defences  are  possible,  on  our  vast  extent  of  shore, 
that  can  preclude  their  ingress.  We  have  exulted  in  prema 
ture  and  hasty  growth  ;  we  must  brace  ourselves  to  bear  the 
evils  that  ensue.  Our  only  hope  lies  in  rousing,  in  our  own 
community,  a  soul  of  goodness,  a  wise  aspiration,  that  shall 
give  us  strength  to  assimilate  this  unwholesome  food  to  better 
substance,  or  cast  off  its  contaminations.  A  mighty  sea  of 
life  swells  within  our  nation,  and,  if  there  be  salt  enough, 
foreign  bodies  shall  not  have  power  to  breed  infection 
there. 

We  have  had  some  opportunity  to  observe  that  the  worst 
works  offered  are  rejected.  On  the  steamboats  we  have  seen 
translations  of  vile  books,  bought  by  those  who  did  not  know 

*  Balzac,  Eugene  Sue,  De  Vigny. 

(158) 


FRENCH   NOVELISTS   OP   THE   DAY.  159 

from  the  names  of  their  authors  what  to  expect,  torn,  after  a 
cursory  glance  at  their  contents,  and  scattered  to  the  winds. 
Not  even  the  all  but  all-powerful  desire  to  get  one's  money's 
worth,  since  it  had  once  been  paid,  could  contend  against  the 
blush  of  shame  that  rose  on  the  cheek  of  the  reader. 

It  would  be  desirable  for  our  people  to  know  something  of 
these  writers,  and  of  the  position  they  occupy  abroad ;  for  the 
nature  of  their  circulation,  rather  than  its  extent,  might  be 
the  guide  both  to  translator  and  buyer.  The  object  of  the 
first  is  generally  money ;  of  the  last,  amusement.  But  the 
merest  mercenary  might  prefer  to  pass  his  time  in  trans 
lating  a  good  book,  and  our  imitation  of  Europe  does  not 
yet  go  so  far  that  the  American  milliner  can  be  depended 
on  to  copy  any  thing  from  the  Parisian  grisette,  except 
her  cap. 

We  have  just  been  reading  "  Le  Pere  Goriot,"  Balzac's 
most  celebrated  work  ;  a  •  remarkable  production,  to  which 
Paris  alone,  at  the  present  day,  could  have  given  birth. 

In  other  of  his  works,  I  have  admired  his  skill  in  giving 
the  minute  traits  of  passion,  and  his  intrepidity,  not  inferior 
to  that  of  Le  Sage  and  Cervantes,  in  facing  the  dark  side  of 
human  nature.  He  reminds  one  of  the  Spanish  romancers 
in  the  fearlessness  with  which  he  takes  mud  into  his  hands, 
and  dips  his  foot  in  slime.  We  cannot  endure  this  when 
done,  as  by  most  Frenchmen,  with  an  air  of  recklessness  and 
gayety ;  but  Balzac  does  it  with  the  stern  manliness  of  a 
Spaniard. 

But  the  conception  of  this  work  is  so  sublime,  that,  though 
the  details  are  even  more  revolting  than  in  his  others,  you 
can  bear  it,  and  would  not  have  missed  your  walk  through 
the  Catacombs,  though  the  light  of  day  seems  stained  after 
wards  with  the  mould  of  horror  and  dismay. 

Balzac,  we  understand,  is  one  of  that  wretched  class  of 
writers  who  live  by  the  pen.  In  Paris  they  count  now  by 
thousands,  and  their  leaves  fall  from  the  press  thick-rustling 


160  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

like  the  November  forest.  I  had  heard  of  this  class  not  with 
out  envy,  for  I  had  been  told  pretty  tales  of  the  gay  poverty 
of  the  Frenchman — how  he  will  live  in  garrets,  on  dry  bread, 
salad,  and  some  wine,  and  spend  all  his  money  on  a  single 
good  suit  of  clothes,  in  which,  when  the  daily  labor  of  copy 
ing  music,  correcting  the  press,  or  writing  poems  or  novels,  is 
over,  he  sallies  forth  to  enjoy  the  theatre,  the  social  soiree,  or 
the  humors  of  the  streets  and  cafes,  as  gay,  as  keenly  alive  to 
observation  and  enjoyment,  as  if  he  were  to  return  to  a  well- 
stocked  table  and  a  cheerful  hearth,  encompassed  by  happy 
faces. 

I  thought  the  intellectual  Frenchman,  in  the  extreme  of 
want,  never  sunk  into  the  inert  reverie  of  the  lazzaroni,  nor 
hid  the  vulture  of  famine  beneath  the  mantle  of  pride  with 
the  bitter  mood  of  a  Spaniard.  But  Balzac  evidently  is 
familiar  with  that  which  makes  the  agony  of  poverty  —  its 
vulgarity. 

Dirt,  confusion,  shabby  expedients,  living  to  live,  —  these 
are  what  make  poverty  terrible  and  odious,  and  in  these  Balzac 
would  seem  to  have  been  steeped  to  the  very  lips. 

These  French  writers  possess  the  art  of  plunging  at  once 
in  medias  res,  and  Balzac  places  you,  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  in  one  of  the  lowest  boarding-houses  of  Paris.  At  first 
all  is  dirt,  hubbub,  and  unsavory  odors ;  but  from  the  vapors 
of  the  caldron  evolves  a  web  of  many-colored  life,  of  terrible 
pathos,  and  original  humor,  not  unenlivened  by  pale  golden 
threads  of  beauty,  which  had  better  never  been. 

All  the  characters  are  excellently  drawn  :  the  harpy  mis 
tress  of  the  house ;  Mile.  Michonnet  the  spy,  and  her  imbecile 
lover ;  Mme.  Coutuner,  with  her  purblind  strivings  after 
virtue,  and  her  real,  though  meagre  respectability ;  Vautrim, 
the  disguised  galley-slave,  with  his  cynical  philosophy  and 
Bonaparte  character ;  and  the  young  students  of  medicine, 
cheering  the  dense  fog  with  the  scintillations  of  their  wit,  and 


FRENCH   NOVELISTS   OF  THE   DAY.  161 

the  joyousness  and  petulance  with  which  their  age  meets  the 
most  adverse  circumstances,  at  least  in  France  ! 

The  connection  between  this  abject  poverty  and  the  highest 
luxury  of  Parisian  life  is  made  naturally  by  Eugene,  con 
nected  to  his  misfortune  with  a  noble  family,  of  which  his 
own  is  a  poor  and  young  branch,  studying  a  profession  and 
sighing  to  live  like  a  duke,  and  Le  Pere  Goriot,  who  has 
stripped  himself  of  all  his  wealth  for  his  daughters,  who  are 
more  naturally  unnatural  than  those  of  Lear.  The  transitions 
are  made  with  as  much  swiftness  as  a  curtain  is  drawn  upon 
the  stage,  yet  with  no  feeling  of  abruptness,  so  skilfully  are 
the  incidents  woven  into  one  another. 

And  be  it  recorded  to  the  credit  of  Balzac,  that,  much  as 
he  appears  to  have  suffered  from  the  want  of  wealth,  the  vices 
which  pollute  it  are  represented  with  as  terrible  force  as  those 
of  poverty. 

The  book  affords  play  for  similar  powers,  and  brings  a 
similar  range  of  motives  into  action  with  Scott's  "  Fortunes  of 
Nigel."  If  less  rich  than  that  work,  it  is  more  original,  and 
has  a  force  of  pencil  all  its  own. 

Insight  and  a  master's  hand  are  admirable  throughout ;  but 
the  product  of  genius  is  Le  Pere  Goriot.  And,  wonderful  to 
relate,  this  character  is  as  much  ennobled,  made  as  poetical 
by  abandonment  to  a  single  instinct,  as  others  by  the  force  of 
will.  Prometheus,  chained  on  his  rock,  and  giving  his  heart 
to  the  birds  of  prey  for  aims  so  majestic,  is  scarcely  a  more 
affecting,  a  more  reverent  object,  than  the  rich  confectioner 
whose  intellect  has  never  been  awakened  at  all,  except  in  the 
way  of  buying  and  selling,  and  who  gives  up  his  acuteneas 
even  there,  and  commits  such  unspeakable  follies  through 
paternal  love ;  a  blind  love  too,  nowise  superior  to  that  of  the 
pelican ! 

Analyze  it  as  you  will,  see  the  difference  between  this  and 
the  instinct  of  the  artist  or  the  philanthropist,  and  it  produces 
on  your  mind  the  same  impression  of  a  present  divinity.  And 
14* 


162  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

scarce  any  tears  could  be  more  sacred  than  those  which  choke 
the  breath  at  the  death-bed  of  this  man,  who  forgot  that  he 
was  a  man,  to  be  wholly  a  father,  this  poor,  mad,  stupid,  father 
Goriot.  I  know  nothing  in  fiction  to  surpass  the  terrible,  un 
pretending  pathos  of  this  scene,  nor  the  power  with  which  the 
mistaken  benediction  given  to  the  two  medical  students  whom 
he  takes  for  his  daughters,  is  redeemed  from  burlesque. 

The  scepticism  as  to  virtue  in  this  book  is  fearful,  but  the 
love  for  innocence  and  beautiful  instincts  casts  a  softening  tint 
over  the  gloom.  We  never  saw  any  thing  sweeter  or  more 
natural  than  the  letters  of  the  mother  and  sisters  of  Eugene, 
when  they  so  delightfully  sent  him  the  money  of  which  he 
had  been  wicked  enough  to  plunder  them.  These  traits  of 
domestic  life  are  given  with  much  grace  and  delicacy  of  sen 
timent. 

How  few  writers  can  paint  abandon,  without  running  into 
exaggeration  !  and  here  the  task  was  one  of  peculiar  difficulty. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  writer  were  conscious  enough  of  his  power 
to  propose  to  himself  the  most  difficult  task  he  could  under 
take. 

A  respectable  reviewer  in  "  Les  Deux  Mondes "  would 
wish  us  to  think  that  there  is  no  life  in  Paris  like  what  Balzac 
paints ;  but  we  can  never  believe  that :  evidently  it  is  "  too 
true,"  though  we  doubt  not  there  is  more  redemption  than 
he  sees. 

But  this  book  was  too  much  for  our  nerves,  and  would  be, 
probably,  for  those  of  most  people  accustomed  to  breathe  a 
healthier  atmosphere. 

Balzac  has  been  a  very  fruitful  writer,  and,  as  he  is  fond  of 
jugglers'  tricks  of  every  description,  and  holds  nothing  earnest 
or  sacred,  he  is  vain  of  the  wonderful  celerity  with  which 
some  of  his  works,  and  those  quite  as  good  as  any,  have  been 
written.  They  seem  to  have  been  conceived,  composed,  and 
written  down  with  that  degree  of  speed  with  which  it  is  pos 
sible  to  lay  pen  to  paper.  Indeed,  we  think  he  cannot  be 


FRENCH  NOVELISTS   OP  THE   DAY.  163 

surpassed  in  the  ready  and  sustained  command  of  his  resources. 
His  almost  unequalled  quickness  and  fidelity  of  eye,  both  as 
to  the  disposition  of  external  objects,  and  the  symptoms  of 
human  passion,  combined  with  a  strong  memory,  have  filled 
his  mind  with  materials,  and  we  doubt  not  that  if  his  thoughts 
could  be  put  into  writing  with  the  swiftness  of  thought,  he 
would  give  us  one  of  his  novels  every  week  in  the  year. 

Here  end  our  praises  of  Balzac ;  what  he  is,  as  a  man,  in 
daily  life,  we  know  not.  He  must  originally  have  had  a  heart, 
or  he  could  not  read  so  well  the  hearts  of  others ;  perhaps 
there  are  still  private  ties  that  touch  him.  But  as  a  writer, 
never  was  the  modern  Mephistopheles,  "  the  spirit  that  deni- 
eth,"  more  worthily  represented  than  by  Balzac. 

He  combines  the  spirit  of  the  man  of  science  with  that  of 
the  amateur  collector.  He  delights  to  analyze,  to  classify; 
there  is  no  anomaly  too  monstrous,  no  specimen  too  revolt 
ing,  to  insure  his  ardent  but  passionless  scrutiny.  But  then 
he  has  taste  and  judgment  to  know  what  is  fair,  rare,  and 
exquisite.  He  takes  up  such  an  object  carefully,  and  puts  it 
in  a  good  light.  But  he  has  no  hatred  for  what  is  loathsome, 
no  contempt  for  what  is  base,  no  love  for  what  is  lovely,  no 
faith  in  what  is  noble.  To  him  there  is  no  virtue  and  no 
vice  ;  men  and  women  are  more  or  less  finely  organized ;  no 
ble  and  tender  conduct  is  more  agreeable  than  the  reverse, 
because  it  argues  better  health ;  that  is  all. 

Nor  is  this  from  an  intellectual  calmness,  nor  from  an  unu 
sual  power  of  analyzing  motives,  and  penetrating  delusions 
merely;  neither  is  it  mere  indifference.  There  is  a  touch  of 
the  demon,  also,  in  Balzac,  the  cold  but  gayly  familiar  demon  ; 
and  the  smile  of  the  amateur  yields  easily  to  a  sneer,  as  he 
delights  to  show  you  on  what  foul  juices  the  fair  flower  was 
fed.  He  is  a  thorough  and  willing  materialist.  The  trance 
of  religion  is  congestion  of  the  brain ;  the  joy  of  the  poet  the 
thrilling  of  the  blood  in  the  rapture  of  sense ;  and  every 
good  not  only  rises  from,  but  hastens  back  into,  the  jaws  of 


164  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

death  and  nothingness ;  a  rainbow  arch  above  a  pestilential 
chaos ! 

Thus  Balzac,  with  all  his  force  and  fulness  of  talent,  never 
rises  one  moment  into  the  region  of  genius.  For  genius  is,  in 
its  nature,  positive  and  creative,  and  cannot  exist  where  there 
is  no  heart  to  believe  in  realities.  Neither  can  he  have  a  per 
manent  influence  on  a  nature  which  is  not  thoroughly  corrupt. 
He  might  for  a  while  stagger  an  ingenuous  mind  which  had 
not  yet  thought  for  itself.  But  this  could  not  last.  His  un 
belief  makes  his  thought  too  shallow.  He  has  not  that  power 
which  a  mind,  only  in  part  sophisticated,  may  retain,  where 
the  heart  still  beats  warmly,  though  it  sometimes  beats  amiss. 
Write,  paint,  argue,  as  you  will,  where  there  is  a  sound  spot 
in  any  human  being,  he  cannot  be  made  to  believe  that  this 
present  bodily  frame  is  more  than  a  temporary  condition  of 
his  being,  though  one  to  which  he  may  have  become  shame 
fully  enslaved  by  fault  of  inheritance,  education,  or  his  own 
carelessness. 

Taken  in  his  own  way,  we  know  no  modern  tragedies  more 
powerful  than  Balzac's  "Eugenie  Grandet,"  "Sweet  Pea," 
"  Search  after  the  Absolute,"  "  Father  Goriot."  See  there 
goodness,  aspiration,  the  loveliest  instincts,  stifled,  strangled 
by  fate,  in  the  form  of  our  own  brute  nature.  The  fate  of  the 
ancient  Prometheus  was  happiness  to  that  of  these,  who  must 
pay,  for  ever  having  believed  there  was  divine  fire  in  heaven, 
by  agonies  of  despair,  and  conscious  degradation,  unknown  to 
those  who  began  by  believing  man  to  be  the  most  richly 
endowed  of  brutes  —  no  more  ! 

Balzac  is  admirable  in  his  description  of  look,  tone,  gesture. 
He  has  a  keen  sense  of  whatever  is  peculiar  to  the  individual. 
Nothing  in  modern  romance  surpasses  the  death-scene  of 
Father  Goriot,  the  Parisian  Lear,  in  the  almost  immortal  life 
with  which  the  parental  instincts  are  displayed.  And  with 
equal  precision  and  delicacy  of  shading  he  will  paint  the 
slightest  by-play  in  the  manners  of  some  young  girl. 


FRENCH   NOVELISTS   OF   THE   DAY.  165 

"  Seraphitus  "  is  merely  a  specimen  of  his  great  powers  of 
intellectual  transposition.  Amid  his  delight  at  the  botanical 
riches  of  the  new  and  elevated  region  in  which  he  is  travelling, 
we  catch,  if  only  by  echo,  the  hem  and  chuckle  of  the  French 
materialist. 

No  more  of  him  !  —  We  leave  him  to  his  suicidal  work. 

It  is  cheering  to  know  how  great  is  the  influence  such  a 
writer  as  Sue  exerts,  from  his  energy  of  feeling  on  some  sub 
jects  of  moral  interest.  It  is  true  that  he  has  also  much  talent 
and  a  various  experience  of  life  j  but  writers  who  far  surpass 
him  here,  as  we  think  Balzac  does,  wanting  this  heart  of 
faith,  have  no  influence,  except  merely  on  the  tastes  of  their 
readers. 

We  observe,  in  a  late  notice  of  Sue,  that  he  began  to  write 
at  quite  mature  age,  at  the  suggestion  of  a  friend.  We  should 
think  it  was  so ;  that  he  was  by  nature  intended  for  a  prac 
tical  man,  rather  than  a  writer.  He  paints  all  his  characters 
from  the  practical  point  of  view. 

As  an  observer,  when  free  from  exaggeration,  he  has  as 
good  an  eye  as  Balzac,  but  he  is  far  more  rarely  thus  free, 
for,  in  temperament,  he  is  unequal  and  sometimes  muddy. 
But  then  he  has  the  heart  and  faith  that  Balzac  wants,  yet  is 
less  enslaved  by  emotion  than  Sand ;  therefore  he  has  made 
more  impression  on  his  time  and  place  than  either.  We  refer 
now  to  his  later  works ;  though  his  earlier  show  much  talent, 
yet  his  progress,  both  as  a  writer  and  thinker,  has  been  so 
considerable  that  those  of  the  last  few  years  entirely  eclipse 
his  earlier  essays. 

These  latter  works  are  the  "  Mysteries  of  Paris,"  "  Matilda," 
and  the  "  Wandering  Jew,"  which  is  now  in  course  of  publica 
tion.  In  these,  he  has  begun,  and  is  continuing,  a  crusade 
against  the  evils  of  a  corrupt  civilization  which  are  inflicting 
such  woes  and  wrongs  upon  his  contemporaries. 

Sue,  however,  does  not  merely  assail,  but  would  build  up. 
His  anatomy  is  not  intended  to  injure  the  corpse,  or,  like  that 


166  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

of  Balzac,  to  entertain  the  intellectual  merely.  Earnestly  he 
hopes  to  learn  from  it  the  remedies  for  disease  and  the  condi 
tions  of  health.  Sue  is  a  Socialist.  He  believes  he  sees  the 
means  by  which  the  heart  of  mankind  may  be  made  to  beat 
with  one  great  hope,  one  love ;  and  instinct  with  this  thought, 
his  tales  of  horror  are  not  tragedies. 

This  is  the  secret  of  the  deep  interest  he  has  awakened  in 
this  country,  that  he  shares  a  hope  which  is,  half  unconsciously 
to  herself,  stirring  all  her  veins.  It  is  not  so  warmly  out 
spoken  as  in  other  lands,  both  because  no  such  pervasive  ills 
as  yet  call  loudly  for  redress,  and  because  private  conserva 
tism  is  here  great,  in  proportion  to  the  absence  of  authorized 
despotism.  We  are  not  disposed  to  quarrel  with  this ;  it  is 
well  for  the  value  of  new  thoughts  to  be  tested  by  a  good  deal 
of  resistance.  Opposition,  if  it  does  not  preclude  free  discus 
sion,  is  of  use  in  educating  men  to  know  what  they  want. 
Only  by  intelligent  men,  exercised  by  thought  and  tried  in 
virtue,  can  such  measures  as  Sue  proposes  be  carried  out ; 
and  when  such  associates  present  themselves  in  sufficient 
numbers,  we  have  no  fear  but  the  cause  of  association,  in  its 
grander  forms,  will  have  fair  play  in  America. 

As  a  writer,  Sue  shows  his  want  of  a  high  kind  of  imagina 
tion  by  his  unshrinking  portraiture  of  physical  horrors.  We 
do  not  believe  any  man  could  look  upon  some  things  he  de 
scribes  and  live.  He  is  very  powerful  in  his  description  of 
the  workings  of  animal  nature;  especially  when  he  speaks 
of  them  in  animals  merely,  they  have  the  simplicity  of  the 
lower  kind  with  the  more  full  expression  of  human  nature. 
His  pictures  of  women  are  of  rare  excellence,  and  it  is  obser 
vable  that  the  more  simple  and  pure  the  character  is,  the  more 
justice  he  does  to  it.  This  shows  that,  whatever  his  career 
may  have  been,  his  heart  is  uncontaminated.  Men  he  does 
not  describe  so  well,  and  fails  entirely  when  he  aims  at  one 
grand  and  simple  enough  for  a  great  moral  agent.  His  con 
ceptions  are  strong,  but  in  execution  he  is  too  melodramatic. 


FRENCH   NOVELISTS   OF   THE   DAY.  167 

Just  compare  his  "  Wandering  Jew  "  with  that  of  Beranger. 
The  latter  is  as  diamond  compared  with  charcoal.  Then,  like 
all  those  writers  who  write  in  numbers  that  come  out  weekly 
or  monthly,  he  abuses  himself  and  his  subject ;  he  often  must ; 
the  arrangement  is  false  and  mechanical. 

The  attitude  of  Sue  is  at  this  moment  imposing,  as  he  stands, 
pen  in  hand,  —  this  his  only  weapon  against  an  innumerable 
host  of  foes,  —  the  champion  of  poverty,  innocence,  and  human 
ity,  against  superstition,  selfishness,  and  prejudice.  When  his 
works  are  forgotten,  —  and  for  all  their  strong  points  and  bril 
liant  decorations,  they  may  ere  long  be  forgotten,  —  still  the 
writer's  name  shall  be  held  in  imperishable  honor  as  the 
teacher  of  the  ignorant,  the  guardian  of  the  weak,  a  true  trib 
une  for  the  people  of  his  own  time. 

One  of  the  most  unexceptionable  and  attractive  writers  of 
modern  France  is  De  Vigny.  His  life  has  been  passed  in  the 
army  ;  but  many  years  of  peace  have  given  him  time  for  lit 
erary  culture,  while  his  acquaintance  with  the  traditions  of  the 
army,  from  the  days  of  its  dramatic  achievements  under  Bona 
parte,  supply  the  finest  materials  both  for  narrative  and  re 
flection.  His  tales  are  written  with  infinite  grace,  refined 
sensibility,  and  a  dignified  view.  His  treatment  of  a  subject 
shows  that  closeness  of  grasp  and  clearness  of  sight  which  are 
rarely  attained  by  one  who  is  not  at  home  in  active  as  well  as 
thoughtful  life.  He  has  much  penetration,  too,  and  has 
touched  some  of  the  most  delicate  springs  of  human  action. 
His  works  have  been  written  in  hours  of  leisure ;  this  has 
diminished  their  number,  but  given  him  many  advantages 
over  the  thousands  of  professional  writers  that  fill  the  coffee 
houses  of  Paris  by  day,  and  its  garrets  by  night.  We  wish 
he  were  more  read  here  in  the  original ;  with  him  would  be 
found  good  French,  and  the  manners,  thoughts,  and  feelings 
of  a  cosmopolitan  gentleman. 

To  sum  up  this  imperfect  account  of  the  merits  of  these  Novel 
ists  :  I  see  De  Vigny,  a  retiring  figure,  the  gentleman,  the  solitary 


168  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

thinker,  but,  in  his  way,  the  efficient  foe  of  false  honor  and  super 
stitious  prejudice ;  Balzac  is  the  heartless  surgeon,  probing  the 
wounds  and  describing  the  delirium  of  suffering  men  for  the 
amusement  of  his  students ;  Sue,  a  bold  and  glittering  crusader, 
with  endless  ballads  jingling  in  the  silence  of  the  night  before 
the  battle.  They  are  all  much  right  and  a  good  deal  wrong ;  for 
instance,  all  who  would  lay  down  their  lives  for  the  sake  of  truth, 
yet  let  their  virtuous  characters  practise  stratagems,  falsehood, 
and  violence ;  in  fact,  do  evil  for  the  sake  of  good.  They  still 
show  this  taint  of  the  old  regime,  and  no  wonder !  La  belle 
France  has  worn  rouge  so  long  that  the  purest  mountain  air 
will  not,  at  once,  or  soon,  restore  the  natural  hues  to  her  com 
plexion.  But  they  are  fine  figures,  and  all  ruled  by  the 
onward  spirit  of  the  time.  Led  by  that  spirit,  I  see  them 
moving  on  the  troubled  waters  ;  they  do  not  sink,  and  I  trust 
they  will  find  their  way  to  the  coasts  where  the  new  era  will 
introduce  new  methods,  in  a  spirit  of  nobler  activity,  wiser 
patience,  and  holier  faith,  than  the  world  has  yet  seen. 

Will  Balzac  also  see  that  shore,  or  has  he  only  broken  away 
the  bars  that  hindered  others  from  setting  sail  ?  We  do  not 
know.  When  we  read  an  expression  of  such  lovely  innocence 
as  the  letter  of  the  little  country  maidens  to  their  Parisian 
brother,  (in  Father  Goriot,)  we  hope ;  but  presently  we  see 
him  sneering  behind  the  mask,  and  we  fear.  Let  Frenchmen 
speak  to  this  question.  They  know  best  what  disadvantages  a 
Frenchman  suffers  under,  and  whether  it  is  possible  Balzac 
be  still  alive,  except  in  his  eyes.  Those,  we  kfiow,  are  quite 
alive. 

To  read  these,  or  any  foreign  works  fairly,  the  reader  must 
understand  the  national  circumstances  under  which  they  were 
written.  To  use  them  worthily,  he  must  know  how  to  inter 
pret  them  for  the  use  of  the  universe. 


THE  NEW  SCIENCE,  OR  THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF 
MESMERISM  OR  ANIMAL  MAGNETISM.* 

MAN  is  always  trying  to  get  charts  and  directions  for  the 
super-sensual  element  in  which  he  finds  himself  involuntarily 
moving.  Sometimes,  indeed,  for  long  periods,  a  life  of  con 
tinual  activity  in  supplying  bodily  wants  or  warding  off  bodily 
dangers  will  make  him  inattentive  to  the  circumstances  of  this 
other  life.  Then,  in  an  interval  of  leisure,  he  will  start  to 
find  himself  pervaded  by  the  power  of  this  more  subtle  and 
searching  energy,  and  will  turn  his  thoughts,  with  new  force, 
to  scrutinize  its  nature  and  its  promises. 

At  such  times  a  corps  is  formed  of  workmen,  furnished 
with  various  implements  for  the  work.  Some  collect  facts 
from  which  they  hope  to  build  up  a  theory ;  others  propose 
theories  by  whose  light  they  hope  to  detect  valuable  facts  ;  a 
large  number  are  engaged  in  circulating  reports  of  these  la 
bors  ;  a  larger  in  attempting  to  prove  them  invalid  and  absurd. 
These  last  are  of  some  use  by  shaking  the  canker-worms 
from  the  trees ;  all  are  of  use  in  elucidating  truth. 

Such  a  course  of  study  has  the  civilized  world  been  en 
gaged  in  for  some  years  back  with  regard  to  what  is  called 
Animal  Magnetism.  We  say  the  civilized  world,  because, 
though  a  large  portion  of  the  learned  and  intellectual,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  thoughtless  and  the  prejudiced,  view  such  re 
searches  as  folly,  yet  we  believe  that  those  prescient  souls, 
those  minds  more  deeply  alive,  which  are  the  life  of  this 

*  Etherology,  or  the  Philosophy  of  Mesmerism  and  Phrenology :  Includ 
ing  a  New  Philosophy  of  Sleep  and  of  Consciousness,  with  a  Review  of  the 
Pretensions  of  Neurology  and  Phreno-Magnetism.    By  J.  Stanley  Grimes. 
15  (169) 


170  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

and  the  parents  of  the  next  era,  all,  more  or  less,  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  share  the  belief  in  such  an  agent  as  is  un 
derstood  by  the  largest  definition  of  animal  magnetism ;  that 
is,  a  means  by  which  influence  and  thought  may  be  communi 
cated  from  one  being  to  another,  independent  of  the  usual 
organs,  and  with  a  completeness  and  precision  rarely  attained 
through  these. 

For  ourselves,  since  we  became  conscious  at  all  of  our 
connection  with  the  two  forms  of  being  called  the  spiritual 
and  material,  we  have  perceived  the  existence  of  such  an 
agent,  and  should  have  no  doubts  on  the  subject,  if  we  had 
never  heard  one  human  voice  in  correspondent  testimony 
with  our  perceptions.  The  reality  of  this  agent  we  know, 
have  tested  some  of  its  phenomena,  but  of  its  law  and  its 
analysis  find  ourselves  nearly  as  ignorant  as  in  earliest  child 
hood.  And  we  must  confess  that  the  best  writers  we  have 
read  seem  to  us  about  equally  ignorant.  We  derive  pleasure 
and  profit  in  very  unequal  degrees  from  their  statements,  in 
proportion  to  their  candor,  clearness  of  perception,  severity 
of  judgment,  and  largeness  of  view.  If  they  possess  these 
elements  of  wisdom,  their  statements  are  valuable  as  affording 
materials  for  the  true  theory ;  but  theories  proposed  by  them 
affect  us,  as  yet,  only  as  partially  sustained  hypotheses.  Too 
many  among  them  are  stained  by  faults  which  must  prevent 
their  coming  to  any  valuable  results,  sanguine  haste,  jealous 
vanity,  a  lack  of  that  profound  devotion  which  alone  can  win 
Truth  from  her  cold  well,  careless  classification,  abrupt  gener 
alizations.  We  see,  as  yet,  no  writer  great  enough  for  the 
patient  investigation,  in  a  spirit  liberal  yet  severely  true, 
which  the  subject  demands.  We  see  no  man  of  Shakspearian, 
Newtonian  incapability  of  deceiving  himself  or  others. 

However,  no  such  man  is  needed,  and  we  believe  that  it  is 
pure  democracy  to  rejoice  that,  in  this  department  as  in  others, 
it  is  no  longer  some  one  great  genius  that  concentrates  within 
himself  the  vital  energy  of  his  time.  It  is  many  working 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   MESMERISM.  171 

together  who  do  the  work.  The  waters  spring  up  in  every 
direction,  as  little  rills,  each  of  which  performs  its  part.  "We 
see  a  movement  corresponding  with  this  in  the  region  of  exact 
science,  anji  we  have  no  doubt  that  in  the  course  of  fifty  years 
a  new  spiritual  circulation  will  be  comprehended  as  clearly 
as  the  circulation  of  the  blood  is  now. 

In  metaphysics,  in  phrenology,  in  animal  magnetism,  in 
electricity,  in  chemistry,  the  tendency  is  the  same,  even  when 
conclusions  seem  most  dissonant.  The  mind  presses  nearer 
home  to  the  seat  of  consciousness  the  more  intimate  law  and 
rule  of  life,  and  old  limits,  become  fluid  beneath  the  fire  of 
thought.  We  are  learning  much,  and  it  will  be  a  grand  music, 
that  shall  be  played  on  this  organ  of  many  pipes. 

With  regard  to  Mr.  Grimes's  book,  in  the  first  place,  we  do 
not  possess  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  subject  to  criticise  it 
thoroughly ;  and  secondly,  if  we  did,  it  could  not  be  done  in 
narrow  limits.  To  us  his  classification  is  unsatisfactory,  his 
theory  inadequate,  his  point  of  view  uncongenial.  We  disap 
prove  of  the  spirit  in  which  he  criticises  other  disciples  in  this 
science,  who  have,  we  believe,  made  some  good  observations, 
with  many  failures,  though,  like  himself,  they  do  not  hold 
themselves  sufficiently  lowly  as  disciples.  -For  we  do  not  be 
lieve  there  is  any  man,  yet,  who  is  entitled  to  give  himself  the 
air  of  having  taken  a  degree  on  this  subject.  We  do  not 
want  the  tone  of  qualification  or  mincing  apology.  We  want 
no  mock  modesty,  but  its  reality,  which  is  the  almost  sure 
attendant  on  greatness.  What  a  lesson  it  would  be  for  this 
country  if  a  body  of  men  could  be  at  work  together  in  that 
harmony  which  would  not  fail  to  ensue  on  a  disinterested  love 
of  discovering  truth,  and  with  that  patience  and  exactness  in 
experiment  without  which  no  machine  was  ever  invented 
worthy  a  patent !  The  most  superficial,  go-ahead,  hit-or-miss 
American  knows  that  no  machine  was  ever  perfected  without 
this  patience  and  exactness ;  and  let  no  one  hope  to  achieve 
victories  in  the  realm  of  mind  at  a  cheaper  rate  than  in  that 
of  matter. 


172  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

In  speaking  thus  of  Mr.  Grimes's  book,  we  can  still  cor 
dially  recommend  it  to  the  perusal  of  our  readers.  Its  state 
ments  are  full  and  sincere.  The  writer  has  abilities  which 
only  need  to  be  used  with  more  thoroughness  and  a  higher 
aim  to  guide  him  to  valuable  attainments. 

In  this  connection  we  will  relate  a  passage  from  personal 
experience,  to  us  powerfully  expressive  of  the  nature  of  this 
higher  agent  in  the  intercourse  of  minds. 

Some  years  ago  I  went,  unexpectedly,  into  a  house  where 
a  blind  girl,  thought  at  that  time  to  have  attained  an  extra 
ordinary  degree  of  clairvoyance,  lay  in  a  trance  of  somnam 
bulism.  I  was  not  invited  there,  nor  known  to  the  party,  but 
accompanied  a  gentleman  who  was. 

The  somnambulist  was  in  a  very  happy  state.  On  her  lips 
was  the  satisfied  smile,  and  her  features  expressed  the  gentle  ele 
vation  incident  to  the  state.  At  that  time  I  had  never  seen  any 
one  in  it,  and  had  formed  no  image  or  opinion  on  the  subject. 
I  was  agreeably  impressed  by  the  somnambulist,  but  on 
listening  to  the  details  of  her  observations  on  a  distant  place, 
I  thought  she  had  really  no  vision,  but  was  merely  led  or  im 
pressed  by  the  mind  of  the  person  who  held  her  hand. 

After  a  while  I  was  beckoned  forward,  and  my  hand 
given  to  the  blind  girl.  The  latter  instantly  dropped  it  with 
an  expression  of  pain,  and  complained  that  she  should  have 
been  brought  in  contact  with  a  person  so  sick,  and  suffering 
at  that  moment  under  violent  nervous  headache.  This  really 
was  the  case,  but  no  one  present  could  have  been  aware  of  it. 

After  a  while  the  somnambulist  seemed  penitent  and  trou 
bled.  She  asked  again  for  my  hand  which  she  had  rejected,  and, 
while  holding  it,  attempted  to  magnetize  the  sufferer.  She 
seemed  touched  by  profound  pity,  spoke  most  intelligently  of 
the  disorder  of  health  and  its  causes,  and  gave  advice,  which, 
if  followed  at  that  time,  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  would 
have  remedied  the  ill. 

Not  only  the  persons  present,  but  the  person  advised  also, 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF  MESMERISM.  173 

had  no  adequate  idea  then  of  the  extent  to  which  health 
was  affected,  nor  saw  fully,  till  some  time  after,  the  justice  of 
what  was  said  by  the  somnambulist.  There  is  every  reason 
to  believe  that  neither  she,  nor  the  persons  who  had  the  care 
of  her,  knew  even  the  name  of  the  person  whom  she  so 
affectionately  wished  to  help. 

Several  years  after,  in  visiting  an  asylum  for  the  blind, 
I  saw  this  same  girl  seated  there.  She  was  no  longer  a 
somnambulist,  though,  from  a  nervous  disease,  very  suscepti 
ble  to  magnetic  influences.  I  went  to  her  among  a  crowd  of 
strangers,  and  shook  hands  with  her  as  several  others  had 
done.  I  then  asked,  "  Do  you  not  not  know  me  ?  "  She  an 
swered,  "  No."  "  Do  you  not  remember  ever  to  have  met 
me  ? "  She  tried  to  recollect,  but  still  said,  "  No."  I  then 
addressed  a  few  remarks  to  her  about  her  situation  there,  but 
she  seemed  preoccupied,  and,  while  I  turned  to  speak  with 
some  one  else,  wrote  with  a  pencil  these  words,  which  she  gave 
me  at  parting :  — 

"  The  ills  that  Heaven  decrees 
The  brave  with  courage  bear." 

Others  may  explain  this  as  they  will ;  to  me  it  was  a  token 
that  the  same  affinity  that  had  acted  before,  gave  the  same 
knowledge ;  for  the  writer  was  at  the  time  ill  in  the  same 
way  as  before.  It  also  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  somnam- 
bulic  trance  was  only  a  form  of  the  higher  development,  the 
sensibility  to  more  subtle  influences  —  in  the  terms  of  Mr. 
Grimes,  a  susceptibility  to  etherium.  The  blind  girl  per 
haps  never  knew  who  I  was,  but  saw  my  true  state  more 
clearly  than  any  other  person  did,  and  I  have  kept  those 
pencilled  lines,  written  in  the  stiff,  round  character  proper 
to  the  blind,  as  a  talisman  of  "  Credenciveness,"  as  the  book  be 
fore  me  styles  it,  Credulity  as  the  world  at  large  does,  and,  to 
my  own  mind,  as  one  of  the  clews  granted,  during  this  earthly 
life,  to  the  mysteries  of  future  states  of  being,  and  more  rapid 
and  complete  modes  of  intercourse  between  mind  and  mind. 
15* 


DEUTSCHE   SCHNELLPOST.* 

THE  publishers  of  this  interesting  and  spirited  journal 
have,  this  year,  begun  to  issue  a  weekly  paper  in  addition 
to  their  former  arrangement.  We  regret  not  to  have  been 
able  earlier  to  take  some  notice  of  their  prospectus,  but  an 
outline  of  it  will  be  new  to  most  of  our  readers. 

Their  journal  has  hitherto  been  intended  for  German  read 
ers  in  this  country,  and  has  been  devoted  to  topics  of  Euro 
pean  interest,  but  by  the  addition  of  the  Weekly,  it  hopes  to 
discuss  with  some  fulness  those  of  American  interest  also ; 
thus  becoming  "an  organ  of  communication  between  Ger 
mans  of  the  old  and  new  home,  as  to  their  wants,  interests, 
and  thoughts."  These  judicious  remarks  follow :  — 

"  The  editors  do  not  coincide  with  those  who  believe  it  the 
vocation  of  the  immigrant  German,  by  systematic  separation 
from  the  people  who  offer  him  a  new  home,  by  voluntary 
withdrawal  from  the  unaccustomed,  and,  perhaps,  for  him 
too  vehement  stream  of  their  life,  in  a  word,  by  obstinate 
adhesion  to  the  old,  to  keep  inviolate  the  stamp  of  his 
nationality. 

"  Rather  is  it  their  faith  that  it  should  be  the  most  earnest 
desire  of  the  immigrant,  not  merely  to  appropriate  in  form, 
but  to  deserve  the  rights  of  a  citizen  here  —  rights  which  we 
confide  in  the  healthy  mind  of  the  nation  to  sustain  him  in, 
all  fanatical  opposition  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  And 
he  must  deserve  them  by  becoming  an  American,  not  merely 

*  A  Gertnan  newspaper. 

(174) 


DEUTSCHE   SCHNELLPOST.  175 

in  name,  but  in  deed,  not  merely  by  assuming  claims,  but  by 
appreciating  duties. 

"  But  while  we  renounce  this  narrow  and  one-sided  isola 
tion,  desiring  to  integrate  ourselves,  fairly  and  truly,  with 
the  great  family  that  receives  us  to  its  hospitality,  we  will 
hold  so  much  the  more  firmly  to  the  higher  traits  of  our  own 
race.  We  hold  to  the  noble  jewel  of  our  native  tongue  ;  the 
memories  of  our  nation's  ancient  glory ;  the  sympathy  with 
its  future,  as  yet  only  glimmering  in  the  dusk ;  our  old,  true, 
domestic  manners ;  dear  inherited  customs,  that  give  to  the 
tranquillities  of  home  their  sanctity  —  to  the  intercourse  be 
tween  men  a  fresh,  glad  life. 

"  So  much  for  our  position  in  general." 

They  promise,  as  to  American  affairs,  "  to  be  just  as  far  as 
in  them  lies,  and  independent,  certainly." 

We  think  the  tone  of  these  remarks  truly  honorable  and 
right-minded.  It  is  such  a  tone  that  each  division  of  our 
adopted  citizens  needs  to  hear  from  those  of  their  compa 
triots  able  to  guide  and  enlighten  them.  We  do  want  that 
each  nation  should  preserve  what  is  valuable  in  its  parent 
stock.  We  want  all  the  elements  for  the  new  people  of  the 
new  world.  We  want  the  prudence,  the  honor,  the  practical 
skill  of  the  English  ;  the  fun,  the  affectionateness,  the  gener 
osity  of  the  Irish  ;  the  vivacity,  the  grace,  the  quick  intelli 
gence  of  the  French  ;  the  thorough  honesty,  the  capacity  for 
philosophic  view,  and  deep  enthusiasm  of  the  German  Bie- 
dermann ;  the  shrewdness  and  romance  of  the  Scotch, —  but  we 
want  none  of  their  prejudices.  We  want  the  healthy  seed  to 
develop  itself  into  a  different  plant  in  the  new  climate.  We 
have  reason  to  hope  a  new  and  generous  race,  where  the 
Italian  meets  the  German,  the  Swede,  the  Jew.  Let  nothing 
be  obliterated,  but  all  be  regenerated ;  let  each  leader  say  in 
like  manner  to  his  band,  Apply  the  old  loyalty  to  a  study 
of  new  duties.  Examine  yourself  whether  you  are  worthy 
of  the  new  rights  so  freely  bestowed  upon  you,  and  recognize 


176  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

that  only  intelligent  action,  and  not  mere  bodily  presence,  can 
make  you  really  a  citizen  on  any  soil.  It  is  a  glorious  boon 
offered  you  to  be  a  founder  of  the  new  dynasty  in  the  new 
world ;  but  it  would  have  been  better  for  you  to  have  died  a 
thousand  deaths  beneath  the  factory  wheels  of  England,  or 
in  the  prisons  of  Russia,  than  to  sell  this  great  privilege  for 
selfish  or  servile  ends.  Here  each  man  has  before  him  the 
choice  of  Esau  —  each  may  defraud  a  long  succession  of  souls 
of  their  princely  inheritance. 

Do  those  whose  bodies  were  born  upon  this  soil  reject 
you,  and  claim  for  themselves  the  name  of  natives  ?  You 
may  be  natives,  in  another  sort,  for  the  soul  may  be  re-born 
here.  Cast  for  yourselves  a  new  nativity,  and  invoke  the 
starry  influences  that  do  not  fail  to  shine  into  the  life  of  a  good 
man,  whose  heart  is  kept  open  daily  to  truth  in  every  new 
form,  whose  heart  is  strengthened  by  a  desire  to  do  his  duty 
valiantly  to  every  brother  of  the  human  family.  Offer  upon 
the  soil  a  libation  of  worthy  feelings  in  gratitude  for  the  bread 
it  so  willingly  yields  you,  and  it  is  true  that  the  "  healthy  mind 
of  the  nation  "  cannot  long  fail  to  greet  you  with  joy,  and  hail 
your  endowment  with  civic  rights. 

We  must  think  there  is  a  deep  root,  in  fact,  for  the  late 
bitter  expressions  of  prejudice,  however  unworthy  the  mode 
of  exhibiting  them,  against  the  foreign  element  in  our  popula 
tion.  We  want  all  this  new  blood,  but  we  want  it  purified, 
assimilated,  or  it  will  take  all  form  of  comeliness  from  the 
growing  nation.  Our  country  is  a  willing  foster  mother,  but 
her  children  need  wise  tutors  to  prevent  them  from  playing, 
willingly  or  unwillingly,  the  viper's  part. 

There  is  a  little  poem  in  the  Schnellpost,  by  Mority  Hart- 
mann,  called  the  "  Three," —  which  would  be  a  forcible  appeal, 
if  any  were  needed,  in  behalf  of  all  who  are  exiled  from  their 
native  soil.  We  translate  it  into  prose,  and  this  will  not  spoil 
it,  as  its  poetry  lies  in  the  situation. 

"  In  a  tavern  of  Hungary  are  sitting  together  Three  who 


DEUTSCHE   SCHNELLPOST.  177 

have  taken  refuge  there  from  storm  and  darkness  —  in  Hun 
gary,  where  the  wind  of  chance  drives  together  the  children 
of  many  a  land. 

"  Their  eyes  glow  with  fires  of  various  light ;  their  locks 
are  unlike  in  their  flow ;  but  their  hearts  —  their  wounded 
hearts  —  are  urns  filled  with  the  tears  of  a  common  grief. 

"  One  cries,  '  Silent  companions  !  Shall  we  have  no  toast 
to  cheer  our  meeting  ?  I  offer  you  one  which  you  cannot 
fail  to  pledge  —  Freedom  and  greatness  to  the  Father 
land ! 

" '  To  the  fatherland !  But  I  am  one  that  knows  not 
where  is  his  ;  I  am  a  Gypsy ;  my  fatherland  lies  in  the 
realm  of  tradition  —  in  the  mournful  tone  of  the  violin  swelled 
by  grief  and  storm. 

" '  I  pass  musing  over  heath  and  moor,  and  think  of  my 
painful  losses.  Yet  long  since  was  I  weaned  from  desire  of 
a  home,  and  think  of  Egypt  but  as  the  cymbal  sounds.' 

"  The  second  says,  '  This  toast  of  fatherland  I  will  not 
drink ;  mine  own  shame  should  I  pledge.  For  the  seed  of 
Jacob  flies  like  the  dried  leaf,  and  takes  no  root  in  the  dust 
of  slavery/ 

"  The  lips  of  the  third  seem  frozen  at  the  edge  of  his  goblet. 
He  asks  himself  in  silence,  '  Shall  /  drink  to  the  fatherland  ? 
Lives  Poland  yet,  or  is  all  life  departed,  and  am  I,  like  these, 
a  motherless  son  ? ' " 

To  those  and  others  who,  if  they  still  had  homes,  could  not 
live  there,  without  starving  body  and  soul,  may  our  land  be  a 
fatherland ;  and  may  they  seek  and  learn  to  act  as  children 
in  a  father's  house  ! 

A  foreign  correspondent  of  the  Schnellpost,  having,  it 
seems,  been  reproved  by  some  friends  on  the  safe  side  of 
the  water  for  the  violence  of  his  attack  on  crowned  heads, 
and  other  dilettanti,  defends  himself  with  great  spirit,  and 
argues  his  case  well  from  his  own  point  of  view.  We  do  not 


178  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

agree  with  him  as  to  the  use  of  methods,  but  cannot  fail  to 
sympathize  in  his  feeling. 

Anecdotes  of  Russian  proceedings  towards  delinquents  are 
well  associated  with  one  anecdote  quoted  of  Peter,  who  yet 
was  truly  the  Great.  In  a  foreign  city,  seeing  the  gallows, 
he  asked  the  use  of  that  three-cornered  thing.  Being  told,  to 
hang  people  on,  he  requested  that  one  might  be  hung  for  him, 
directly.  Being  told  this,  unfortunately,  could  not  be  done, 
as  there  was  no  criminal  under  sentence,  he  desired  that  one 
of  his  own  retinue  might  be  made  use  of.  Probably  he  did 
this  with  no  further  thought  than  the  Empress  Catharine 
bestowed,  on  having  a  ship  of  the  line  blown  up,  as  a  model 
for  the  painter  who  was  to  adorn  her  palace  with  pictures  of 
naval  battles.  Disregard  for  human  life  and  human  happi 
ness  is  not  confined  to  the  Russian  snows,  or  the  eastern  hem 
isphere  ;  it  may  be  found  on  every  side,  though,  indeed,  not 
on  a  scale  so  imperial. 


OLIVER   CROMWELL* 

A  LONG  expectation  is  rewarded  at  last  by  the  appearance 
of  this  book.  We  cannot  wonder  that  it  should  have  been 
long,  when  Mr.  Carlyle  shows  us  what  a  world  of  ill-arranged 
and  almost  worthless  materials  he  has  had  to  wade  through 
before  achieving  any  possibility  of  order  and  harmony  for  his 
narrative. 

The  method  which  he  has  chosen  of  letting  the  letters  and 
speeches  of  Cromwell  tell  the  story  when  possible,  only  him 
self  doing  what  is  needful  to  throw  light  where  it  is  most 
wanted  and  fill  up  gaps,  is  an  excellent  one.  Mr.  Carlyle, 
indeed,  is  a  most  peremptory  showman,  and  with  each  slide 
of  his  magic  lantern  informs  us  not  only  of  what  is  necessary 
to  enable  us  to  understand  it,  but  how  we  must  look  at  it, 
under  peril  of  being  ranked  as  "  imbeciles,"  "  canting  scep 
tics,"  "disgusting  rose-water  philanthropists,"  and  the  like. 
And  aware  of  his  power  of  tacking  a  nickname  or  ludicrous 
picture  to  any  one  who  refuses  to  obey,  we  might  perhaps  feel 
ourselves,  if  in  his  neighborhood,  under  such  constraint  and 
fear  of  deadly  laughter,  as  to  lose  the  benefit  of  having  under 
our  eye  to  form  our  judgment  upon  the  same  materials  on 
which  he  formed  his. 

But  the  ocean  separates  us,  and  the  showman  has  his  own 
audience  of  despised  victims,  or  scarce  less  despised  pupils  ; 
and  we  need  not  fear  to  be  handed  down  to  posterity  as  "  a 
little  gentleman  in  a  gray  coat"  "shrieking"  unutterable  "im 
becilities,"  or  with  the  like  damnatory  affixes,  when  we  profess 

*  Letters  and  Speeches  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  by  Thomas  Carlyle. 

(179) 


180  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

that,  having  read  the  book,  and  read  the  letters  and  speeches 
thus  far,  we  cannot  submit  to  the  showman's  explanation  of 
the  lantern,  but  must,  more  than  ever,  stick  to  the  old  "  Phil 
istine,"  "  Dilettante,"  "  Imbecile,"  and  what  not  view  of  the 
character  of  Cromwell. 

"We  all  know  that  to  Mr.  Carlyle  greatness  is  well  nigh 
synonymous  with  virtue,  and  that  he  has  shown  himself  a 
firm  believer  in  Providence  by  receiving  the  men  of  destiny 
as  always  entitled  to  reverence.  Sometimes  a  great  success 
has  followed  the  portraits  painted  by  him  in  the  light  of  such 
faith,  as  with  regard  to  Mahomet,  for  instance.  The  natural 
autocrat  is  his  delight,  and  in  such  pictures  as  that  of  the 
monk  in  "  Past  and  Present,"  where  the  geniuses  of  artist 
and  subject  coincide,  the  result  is  no  less  delightful  for  us. 

But  Mr.  Carlyle  reminds  us  of  the  man  in  a  certain  parish 
who  had  always  looked  up  to  one  of  its  squires  as  a  secure 
and  blameless  idol,  and  one  day  in  church,  when  the  minister 
asked  "  all  who  felt  in  concern  for  their  souls  to  rise,"  looked 
to  the  idol  and  seeing  him  retain  his  seat,  (asleep  perchance !) 
sat  still  also.  One  of  his  friends  asking  him  afterwards  how 
he  could  refuse  to  answer  such  an  appeal,  he  replied,  "  he 
thought  it  safest  to  stay  with  the  squire." 

Mr.  Carlyle's  squires  are  all  Heaven's  justices  of  peace  or 
war,  (usually  the  latter;)  they  are  beings  of  true  energy  and 
genius,  and  so  far,  as  he  describes  them,  "  genuine  men."  But 
in  doubtful  cases,  where  the  doubt  is  between  them  and  prin 
ciples,  he  will  insist  that  the  men  must  be  in  the  right.  On 
such  occasions  he  favors  us  with  such  doctrine  as  the  follow 
ing,  which  we  confess  we  had  the  weakness  to  read  with 
"sibylline  execration"  and  extreme  disgust. 

Speaking  of  Cromwell's  course  in  Ireland :  — 

"  Oliver's  proceedings  here  have  been  the  theme  of  much 
loud  criticism,  sibylline  execration,  into  which  it  is  not  our 
plan  to  enter  at  present.  We  shall  give  these  fifteen  letters 
of  his  in  a  mass,  and  without  any  commentary  whatever.  To 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  181 

those  who  think  that  a  land  overrun  with  sanguinary  quacks 
can  be  healed  by  sprinkling  it  with  rose-water,  these  letters 
must  be  very  horrible.  Terrible  surgery  this ;  but  is  it  sur 
gery  and  judgment,  or  atrocious  murder  merely  ?  This  is  a 
question  which  should  be  asked;  and  answered.  Oliver 
Cromwell  did  believe  in  God's  judgments ;  and  did  not  be 
lieve  in  the  rose-water  plan  of  surgery,  —  which,  in  fact,  is 
this  editor's  case  too !  Every  idle  lie  and  piece  of  empty 
bluster  this  editor  hears,  he  too,  like  Oliver,  has  to  shudder  at 
it ;  has  to  think,  '  Thou,  idle  bluster,  not  true,  thou  also  art 
shutting  men's  minds  against  God's  fact;  thou  wilt  issue 
as  a  cleft  crown  to  some  poor  man  some  day ;  thou  also  wilt 
have  to  take  shelter  in  bogs,  whither  cavalry  cannot  follow ! ' 
But  in  Oliver's  time,  as  I  say,  there  was  still  belief  in  the 
judgments  of  God ;  in  Oliver's  time,  there  was  yet  no  dis 
tracted  jargon  of  '  abolishing  capital  punishments,'  of  Jean- 
Jacques  philanthropy,  and  universal  rose-water  in  this  world 
still  so  full  of  sin.  Men's  notion  was,  not  for  abolishing  pun 
ishments,  but  for  making  laws  just.  God  the  Maker's  laws, 
they  considered,  had  not  yet  got  the  punishment  abolished 
from  them !  Men  had  a  notion  that  the  difference  between 
good  and  evil  was  still  considerable  —  equal  to  the  difference 
between  heaven  and  hell.  It  was  a  true  notion,  which  all 
men  yet  saw,  and  felt,  in  all  fibres  of  their  existence,  to  be 
true.  Only  in  late  decadent  generations,  fast  hastening  to 
ward  radical  change  or  final  perdition,  can  such  indiscriminate 
mashing  up  of  good  and  evil  into  one  universal  patent  treacle, 
and  most  unmedical  electuary,  of  Rousseau  sentimentalism, 
universal  pardon  and  benevolence,  with  dinner  and  drink  and 
one  cheer  more,  take  effect  in  our  earth.  Electuary  very 
poisonous,  as  sweet  as  it  is,  and  very  nauseous ;  of  which 
Oliver,  happier  than  we,  had  not  yet  heard  the  slightest  inti 
mation  even  in  dreams. 

*  *  * 

"  In  fact,  Oliver's  dialect  is  rude  and  obsolete ;  the  phrases 
16 


182  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

of  Oliver,  to  him  solemn  on  the  perilous  battle  field  as  voices 
of  God,  have  become  to  us  most  mournful  when  spouted  as 
frothy  cant  from  Exeter  Hall.  The  reader  has,  all  along,  to 
make  steady  allowance  for  that.  And  on  the  whole,  clear 
recognition  will  be  difficult  for  him.  To  a  poor  slumberous 
canting  age,  mumbling  to  itself  every  where,  Peace,  peace, 
when  there  is  no  peace,  —  such  a  phenomena  as  Oliver,  in 
Ireland  or  elsewhere,  is  not  the  most  recognizable  in  all  its 
meanings.  But  it  waits  there  for  recognition,  and  can  wait 
an  age  or  two.  The  memory  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  as  I  count, 
has  a  good  many  centuries  in  it  yet ;  and  ages  of  very  varied 
complexion  to  apply  to,  before  all  end.  My  reader,  in  this 
passage  and  others,  shall  make  of  it  what  he  can. 

"  But  certainly,  at  lowest,  here  is  a  set  of  military  de 
spatches  of  the  most  unexampled  nature  !  Most  rough,  un 
kempt  ;  shaggy  as  the  Numidian  lion.  A  style  rugged  as 
crags ;  coarse,  drossy :  yet  with  a  meaning  in  it,  an  energy, 
a  depth  ;  pouring  on  like  a  fire  torrent ;  perennial  fire  of  it 
visible  athwart  all  drosses  and  defacements  ;  not  uninteresting 
to  see !  This  man  has  come  into  distracted  Ireland  with  a 
God's  truth  in  the  heart  of  him,  though  an  unexpected  one ; 
the  first  such  man  they  have  seen  for  a  great  while  indeed. 
He  carries  acts  of  Parliament,  laws  of  earth  and  heaven,  in 
one  hand  ;  drawn  sword  in  the  other.  He  addresses  the  be 
wildered  Irish  populations,  the  black  ravening  coil  of  sangui 
nary  blustering  individuals  at  Tredah  and  elsewhere :  *  San 
guinary,  blustering  individuals,  whose  word  is  grown  worth 
less  as  the  barking  of  dogs ;  whose  very  thought  is  false,  rep 
resenting  no  fact,  but  the  contrary  of  fact  —  behold,  I  am 
come  to  speak  and  to  do  the  truth  among  you.  Here  are  acts 
in  Parliament,  methods  of  regulation  and  veracity,  emblems 
the  nearest  we  poor  Puritans  could  make  them  of  God's  law- 
book,  to  which  it  is  and  shall  be  our  perpetual  effort  to  make 
them  correspond  nearer  and  nearer.  Obey  them,  help  us  to 
perfect  them,  be  peaceable  and  true  under  them,  it  shall  be 


OLIVER  CROMWELL.  183 

well  with  you.  Refuse  to  obey  them,  I  will  not  let  you  con 
tinue  living  !  As  articulate  speaking  veracious  orderly  men, 
not  as  a  blustering,  murderous  kennel  of  dogs  run  rabid,  shall 
you  continue  in  this  earth.  Choose  ! '  They  chose  to  disbe 
lieve  him  ;  could  not  understand  that  he,  more  than  the  others, 
meant  any  truth  or  justice  to  them.  They  rejected  his  sum 
mons  and  terms  at  Tredah ;  he  stormed  the  place ;  and,  ac 
cording  to  his  promise,  put  every  man  of  the  garrison  to  death. 
His  own  soldiers  are  forbidden  to  plunder,  by  paper  proclama 
tion  ;  and  in  ropes  of  authentic  hemp,  they  are  hanged  when 
they  do  it.  To  Wexford  garrison,  the  like  terms  as  at  Tre 
dah  ;  and,  failing  these,  the  like  storm.  Here  is  a  man  whose 
word  represents  a  thing  !  Not  bluster  this,  and  false  jargon 
scattering  itself  to  the  winds ;  what  this  man  speaks  out  of 
him  comes  to  pass  as  a  fact ;  speech  with  this  man  is  accu 
rately  prophetic  of  deed.  This  is  the  first  king's  face  poor 
Ireland  ever  saw  ;  the  first  friend's  face,  little  as  it  recognizes 
him  —  poor  Ireland  !  " 

Yes,  Cromwell  had  force  and  sagacity  to  get  that  done 
which  he  had  resolved  to  get  done  ;  and  this  is  the  whole  truth 
about  your  admiration,  Mr.  Carlyle.  Accordingly,  at  Drog- 
heda  quoth  Cromwell,  — 

"  I  believe  we  put  to  sword  the  whole  number  of  the  defend 
ants.  *  *  Indeed,  being  in  the  heat  of  action,  I  forbade 
them  to  spare  any  that  were  in  arms  in  the  town  ;  and  I  think 
that  night  they  put  to  the  sword  about  two  thousand  men, 
divers  of  the  officers  and  soldiers  being  fled  over  the  bridge 
into  the  other  part  of  the  town  ;  and  where  about  one  hun 
dred  of  them  possessed  St.  Peter's  Church,  steeple,  &c. 
These,  being  summoned  to  yield  to  mercy,  refused.  Where 
upon  I  ordered  the  steeple  of  St.  Peter's  Church  to  be  fired ; 
when  one  of  them  was  heard  to  say,  in  the  midst  of  the  flames, 
i  God  confound  me  !  I  burn,  I  burn  ! ' 

"  I  am  persuaded  that  this  is  a  righteous  "judgment  of  God 


184  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

upon  these  barbarous  wretches  who  have  imbrued  their  hands 
in  so  much  innocent  blood  ;  and  that  it  will  tend  to  prevent 
the  effusion  of  blood  for  the  future.  Which  are  the  satisfac 
tory  grounds  to  such  actions,  which  otherwise  cannot  but  work 
remorse  and  regret.  .  *  .  *  This  hath  been  an  exceeding 
great  mercy." 

Certainly  one  not  of  .the  rose-water  or  treacle  kind.  Mr. 
Carlyle  says  such  measures  "  cut  to  the  hear?  of  the  war," 
and  brought  peace.  Was  there  then  no  crying  of  Peace, 
Peace,  when  there  was  no  peace  ?  Ask  the  Irish  peasantry 
why  they  mark  that  period  with  the  solemn  phrase  of  "  Crom 
well's  Curse ! " 

For  ourselves,  though  aware  of  the  mistakes  and  errors  in 
particulars  that  must  occur,  we  believe  the  summing  up  of  a 
man's  character  in  the  verdict  of  his  time,  is  likely  to  be  cor 
rect.  We  believe  that  Cromwell  was  "  a  curse,"  as  much  as 
a  blessing,  in  these  acts  of  his.  We  believe  him  ruthless, 
ambitious,  half  a  hypocrite,  (few  men  have  courage  or  want 
of  soul  to  bear  being  wholly  so,)  and  we  think  it  is  rather  too 
bad  to  rave  at  us  in  our  time  for  canting,  and  then  hold  up 
the  prince  of  canters  for  our  reverence  in  his  "dimly  seen 
nobleness."  Dimly,  indeed,  despite  the  rhetoric  and  satire 
of  Mr.  Carlyle! 

In  previous  instances  where  Mr.  Carlyle  has  acted  out  his 
predeterminations  as  to  the  study  of  a  character,  we  have  seen 
circumstances  favor  him,  at  least  sometimes.  There  were  fine 
moments,  fine  lights  upon  the  character  that  he  would  seize 
upon.  But  here  the  facts  look  just  as  they  always  have.  He 
indeed  ascertains  that  the  Cromwell  family  were  not  mere 
brewers  or  plebeians,  but  "  substantial  gentry,"  and  that  there 
is  not  the  least  ground  for  the  common  notion  that  Crom 
well  lived  at  any  time  a  dissolute  life.  But  with  the  excep 
tion  of  these  emendations,  still  the  history  looks  as  of  old. 
We  see  a  man  of  strong  and  wise  mind,  educated  by  the  pres- 


OLIVER  CROMWELL.  185 

sure  of  great  occasions  to  station  of  command ;  we  see  him 
wearing  the  religions  garb  which  was  the  custom  of  the  times, 
and  even  preaching  to  himself  as  well  as  to  others  —  for  well 
can  we  imagine  that  his  courage  and  his  pride  would  have 
fallen  without  keeping  up  the  illusion  ;  but  we  never  see 
Heaven  answering  his  invocations  in  any  way  that  can  inter 
fere  with  the  rise  of  his  fortunes  or  the  accomplishment  of  his 
plans.  To  ourselves,  the  tone  of  these  religious  holdings-forth 
is  sufficiently  expressive  ;  they  all  ring  hollow ;  we  have 
never  read  any  thing  of  the  sort  more  repulsive  to  us  than 
the  letter  to  Mr.  Hammond,  which  Mr.  Carlyle  thinks  such  a 
noble  contrast  to  the  impiety  of  the  present  time.  Indeed, 
we  cannot  recover  from  our  surprise  at  Mr.  Carlyle's  liking 
these  letters  ;  his  predetermination  must  have  been  strong 
indeed.  Again,  we  see  Cromwell  ruling  with  the  strong  arm, 
and  carrying  the  spirit  of  monarchy  to  an  excess  which  no 
Stuart  could  surpass.  Cromwell,  indeed,  is  wise,  and  the 
king  he  had  punished  with  death  is  foolish  ;  Charles  is  faith 
less,  and  Cromwell  crafty ;  we  see  no  other  difference.  Crom 
well  does  not,  in  power,  abide  by  the  principles  that  led  him 
to  it ;  and  we  can't  help  —  so  rose-water  imbecile  are  we  !  — 
admiring  those  who  do  :  one  Lafayette,  for  instance  —  poor 
chevalier  so  despised  by  Mr.  Carlyle  —  for  abiding  by  his 
principles,  though  impracticable,  more  than  Louis  Philippe, 
who  laid  them  aside,  so  far  as  necessary,  "  to  secure  peace  to 
the  kingdom ; "  and  to  us  it  looks  black  for  one  who  kills 
kings  to  grow  to  be  more  kingly  than  a  king. 

The  death  of  Charles  I.  was  a  boon  to  the  world,  for  it 
marked  the  dawn  of  a  new  era,  when  kings,  in  common  with 
other  men,  are  to  be  held  accountable  by  God  and  mankind 
for  what  they  do.  Many  who  took  part  in  this  act  which  did 
require  a  courage  and  faith  almost  unparalleled,  were,  no 
doubt,  moved  by  the  noblest  sense  of  duty.  We  doubt  not 
this  had  its  share  in  the  bosom  counsels  of  Cromwell.  But 
16* 


186  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

we  cannot  sympathize  with  the  apparent  satisfaction  of  Mr. 
Carlyle  in  seeing  him  engaged,  two  days  after  the  execu 
tion,  in  marriage  treaty  for  his  son.  This  seems  more  ruth- 
lessness  than  calmness.  One  who  devoted  so  many  days  to 
public  fasting  and  prayer,  on  less  occasions,  might  well  make 
solemn  pause  on  this.  Mr.  Carlyle  thinks  much  of  some 
pleasant  domestic  letters  from  Cromwell.  What  brigand, 
what  pirate,  fails  to  have  some  such  soft  and  light  feel 
ings  ? 

In  short,  we  have  no  time  to  say  all  we  think ;  but  we 
stick  to  the  received  notions  of  Old  Noll,  with  his  great,  red 
nose,  hard  heart,  long  head,  and  crafty  ambiguities.  Nobody 
ever  doubted  his  great  abilities  and  force  of  will ;  neither  doubt 
we  that  he  was  made  an  "  instrument "  just  as  he  professeth. 
But  as  to  looking  on  him  through  Mr.  Carlyle's  glasses,  we 
shall  not  be  sneered  or  stormed  into  it,  unless  he  has  other 
proof  to  offer  than  is  shown  yet.  And  we  resent  the  violence 
he  offers  both  to  our  prejudices  and  our  perceptions.  If  he 
has  become  interested  in  Oliver,  or  any  other  pet  hyena,  by 
studying  his  habits,  is  that  any  reason  we  should  admit  him 
to  our  Pantheon  ?  No !  our  imbecility  shall  keep  fast  the 
door  against  any  thing  short  of  proofs  that  in  the  hyena  a 
god  is  incarnated.  Mr.  Carlyle  declares  that  he  sees  it,  but 
we  really  cannot.  The  hyena  is  surely  not  out  of  the  king 
dom  of  God,  but  as  to  being  the  finest  emblem  of  what  is 
divine  —  no,  no  ! 

In  short,  we  can  sympathize  with  the  words  of  John 
Maidstone  :  — 

"  He  [Cromwell]  was  a  strong  man  in  the  dark  perils  of 
war ;  in  the  high  places  of  the  field,  hope  shone  in  him  like  a 
pillar  of  fire,  when  it  had  gone  out  in  the  others  "  —  a  poetic 
and  sufficient  account  of  the  secret  of  his  power. 

But  Mr.  Carlyle  goes  on  to  gild  the  refined  gold  thus  :  — 

"A  genuine  king  among  men,  Mr.  Maidstone !    The  divinest 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  187 

sight  this  world  sees,  when  it  is  privileged  to  see  such,  and  not 
be  sickened  with  the  unholy  apery  of  such." 

We  know  you  do  with  all  your  soul  love  kings  and  heroes, 
Mr.  Carlyle,  but  we  are  not  sure  you  would  always  know  the 
Sauls  from  the  Davids.  We  fear,  if  you  had  the  disposal  of 
the  holy  oil,  you  would  be  tempted  to  pour  it  on  the  head  of 
him  who  is  taller  by  the  head  than  all  his  brethren,  without 
sufficient  care  as  to  purity  of  inward  testimony. 

Such  is  the  impression  left  on  us  by  the  book  thus  far,  as 
to  the  view  of  its  hero ;  but  as  to  what  difficulties  attended  the 
writing  the  history  of  Cromwell,  the  reader  will  like  to  see 
what  Mr.  Carlyle  himself  says  :  — 

"  These  authentic  utterances  of  the  man  Oliver  himself — 
I  have  gathered  them  from  far  and  near  ;  fished  them  up 
from  the  foul  Lethean  quagmires  where  they  lay  buried ;  I 
have  washed,  or  endeavored  to  wash,  them  clean  from  for 
eign  stupidities,  (such  a  job  of  buck-washing  as  I  do  not  long 
to  repeat ;)  and  the  world  shall  now  see  them  in  their  own 
shape." 

For  the  rest,  this  book  is  of  course  entertaining,  witty, 
dramatic,  picturesque ;  all  traits  that  are  piquant,  many  that 
have  profound  interest,  are  brought  out  better  than  new.  The 
"  letters  and  speeches  "  are  put  into  readable  state,  and  this 
alone  is  a  great  benefit.  They  are  a  relief  after  Mr.  Carlyle's 
high-seasoned  writing ;  and  this  again  is  a  relief  after  their 
long-winded  dimnesses.  Most  of  the  heroic  anecdotes  of  the 
time  had  been  used  up  before,  but  they  lose  nothing  in  the 
hands  of  Carlyle  ;  and  pictures  of  the  scenes,  such  as  of  Nase- 
by  fight,  for  instance,  it  was  left  to  him  to  give.  We  have 
passed  over  the  hackneyed  ground  attended  by  a  torch-bearer, 
who  has  given  a  new  animation  to  the  procession  of  events, 
and  cast  a  ruddy  glow  on  many  a  striking  physiognomy.  That 
any  truth  of  high  value  has  been  brought  to  light,  we  do  not 
perceive  —  certainly  nothing  has  been  added  to  our  own  sense 
of  the  greatness  of  the  times,  nor  any  new  view  presented 


188  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

that  we  can  adopt,  as  to  the  position  and  character  of  the 
agents. 

We  close  with  the  only  one  of  Cromwell's  letters  that  we 
really  like.  Here  his  religious  words  and  hij  temper  seem 
quite  sincere. 

"  To  my  loving  Brother,  Colonel  Valentine  Walton :    These. 

July,  1644. 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  It's  our  duty  to  sympathize  in  all  mercies ; 
and  to  praise  the  Lord  together  in  chastisements  or  trials,  so 
that  we  may  sorrow  together. 

"  Truly  England  and  the  church  of  God  hath  had  a  great 
favor  from  the  Lord,  in  this  great  victory  given  unto  us,  such 
as  the  like  never  was  since  this  war  began.  It  had  all  the 
evidences  of  an  absolute  victory  obtained  by  the  Lord's  bless 
ing  upon  the  godly  party  principally.  We  never  charged  but 
we  routed  the  enemy.  The  left  wing,  which  I  commanded, 
being  our  own  horse,  saving  a  few  Scots  in  our  rear,  beat  all 
the  prince's  horse.  God  make  them  as  stubble  to  our  swords. 
We  charged  their  regiments  of  foot  with  our  horse,  and  routed 
all  we  charged.  The  particulars  I  cannot  relate  now  ;  but  I 
believe,  of  twenty  thousand,  the  prince  hath  not  four  thousand 
left.  Give  glory,  all  the  glory,  to  God. 

"  Sir,  God  hath  taken  away  your  eldest  son  by  a  cannon- 
shot.  It  brake  his  leg.  We  were  necessitated  to  have  it  cut 
off,  whereof  he  died. 

"  Sir,  you  know  my  own  trials  this  way  ;  *  but  the  Lord 
supported  me  with  this,  that  the  Lord  took  him  into  the  hap 
piness  we  all  pant  for  and  live  for.  There  is  your  precious 
child,  full  of  glory,  never  to  know  sin  or  sorrow  any  more. 
He  was  a  gallant  young  man,  exceedingly  gracious.  God 
give  you  his  comfort.  Before  his  death  he  was  so  full  of 


*  I  conclude  the  poor  boy  Oliver  has  already  fallen  in  these  wars  ;  none 
of  us  knows  where,  though  his  father  well  knew. 


OLIVER   CROMWELL.  189 

comfort,  that  to  Frank  Russel  and  myself  he  could  not  ex 
press  it,  ( it  was  so  great  above  his  pain.'  This  he  said  to  us. 
Indeed  it  was  admirable.  A  little  after,  he  said  one  thing 
lay  upon  his  spirit.  I  asked  him  what  that  was.  He  told 
me  it  was,  that  God  had  not  suffered  him  to  be  any  more  the 
executioner  of  his  enemies.  At  his  fall,  his  horse  being  killed 
with  the  bullet,  and,  as  I  am  informed,  three  horses  more,  I 
am  told  he  bid  them  open  to  the  right  and  left,  that  he  might 
see  the  rogues  run.  Truly  he  was  exceedingly  beloved  in 
the  army,  of  all  that  knew  him.  But  few  knew  him  ;  for  he 
was  a  precious  young  man,  fit  for  God.  You  have  cause  to 
bless  the  Lord.  He  is  a  glorious  saint  in  heaven  ;  wherein 
you  ought  exceedingly  to  rejoice.  Let  this  drink  up  your 
sorrow ;  seeing  these  are  not  feigned  words  to  comfort  you, 
but  the  thing  is  so  real  and  undoubted  a  truth.  You  may  do 
all  things  by  the  strength  of  Christ.  Seek  that,  and  you 
shall  easily  bear  your  trial.  Let  this  public  mercy  to  the 
church  of  God  make  you  to  forget  your  private  sorrow.  The 
Lord  be  your  strength  ;  so  prays 

"  Your  truly  faithful  and  loving  brother, 

"OLIVER  CROMWELL." 

And  add  this  noble  passage,  in  which  Carlyle  speaks  of  the 
morbid  affection  of  Cromwell's  mind  :  — 

"  In  those  years  it  must  be  that  Dr.  Simcott,  physician  in 
Huntingdon,  had  to  do  with  Oliver's  hypochondriac  maladies. 
He  told  Sir  Philip  Warwick,  unluckily  specifying  no  date,  or 
none  that  has  survived,  '  he  had  often  been  sent  for  at  mid 
night  ; '  Mr.  Cromwell  for  many  years  was  very  '  splenetic/ 
(spleen-struck,)  often  thought  he  was  just  about  to  die,  and 
also  '  had  fancies  about  the  Town  Cross.'  *  Brief  intimation, 
of  which  the  reflective  reader  may  make  a  great  deal.  Sam 
uel  Johnson  too  had  hypochondrias  ;  all  great  souls  are  apt  to 

*  Sir  Philip  "Warwick's  Memoirs,  (London,  1701,)  p.  249. 


190  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

have  ;  and  to  be  in  thick  darkness  generally,  till  the  eternal 
ways  and  the  celestial  guiding  stars  disclose  themselves,  and 
the  vague  abyss  of  life  knit  itself  up  into  firmaments  for  them. 
The  temptations  in  the  wilderness,  choices  of  Hercules,  and  the 
like,  in  succinct  or  loose  form,  are  appointed  for  every  man 
that  will  assert  a  soul  in  himself  and  be  a  man.  Let  Oliver 
take  comfort  in  his  dark  sorrows  and  melancholies.  The 
quantity  of  sorrow  he  has,  does  it  not  mean  withal  the  quan 
tity  of  sympathy  he  has,  the  quantity  of  faculty  and  victory 
he  shall  yet  have  ?  *  Our  sorrow  is  the  inverted  image  of  our 
nobleness.'  The  depth  of  our  despair  measures  what  capa 
bility,  and  height  of  claim,  we  have  to  hope.  Black  smoke  as 
of  Tophet  filling  all  your  universe,  it  can  yet  by  true  heart- 
energy  become  flame,  and  brilliancy  of  heaven.  Courage ! " 

Were  the  flame  but  a  pure  as  well  as  a  bright  flame  !  Some 
times  we  know  the  black  phantoms  change  to  white  angel 
forms ;  the  vulture  is  metamorphosed  into  a  dove.  -Was  it  so 
in  this  instance  ?  Unlike  Mr.  Carlyle,  we  are  willing  to  let 
each  reader  judge  for  himself;  but  perhaps  we  should  not  be 
so  generous  if  we  had  studied  ourselves  sick  in  wading  through 
all  that  mass  of  papers,  and  had  nothing  to  defend  us  against 
the  bitterness  of  biliousness,  except  a  growing  enthusiasm 
about  our  hero. 


EMERSON'S   ESSAYS.* 

AT  the  distance  of  three  years  this  volume  follows  the  first 
series  of  Essays,  which  have  already  made  to  themselves  a 
circle  of  readers,  attentive,  thoughtful,  more  and  more  intelli 
gent  ;  and  this  circle  is  a  large  one  if  we  consider  the  circum 
stances  of  this  country,  and  of  England  also,  at  this  time. 

Irf  England  it  would  seem  there  are  a  larger  number  of 
persons  waiting  for  an  invitation  to  calm  thought  and  sincere 
intercourse  than  among  ourselves.  Copies  of  Mr.  Emerson's 
first  published  little  volume  called  "  Nature,"  have  there  been 
sold  by  thousands  in  a  short  time,  while  one  edition  has  needed 
seven  years  to  get  circulated  here.  Several  of  his  orations 
and  essays  from  the  "  Dial "  have  also  been  republished 
there,  and  met  with  a  reverent  and  earnest  response. 

We  suppose  that  while  in  England  the  want  of  such  a  voice 
is  as  great  as  here,  a  larger  number  are  at  leisure  to  recog 
nize  that  want ;  a  far  larger  number  have  set  foot  in  the  spec 
ulative  region,  and  have  ears  refined  to  appreciate  these 
melodious  accents. 

Our  people,  heated  by  a  partisan  spirit,  necessarily  occu 
pied  in  these  first  stages  by  bringing  out  the  material  resources 
of  the  land,  not  generally  prepared  by  early  training  for 
the  enjoyment  of  books  that  require  attention  and  reflection, 
are  still  more  injured  by  a  large  majority  of  writers  and 
speakers,  who  lend  all  their  efforts  to  flatter  corrupt  tastes 
and  mental  indolence,  instead  of  feeling  it  their  prerogative 
and  their  duty  to  admonish  the  community  of  the  danger  and 

*  Essays,  Second  Series,  by  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

(191) 


192  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

arouse  it  to  nobler  energy.  The  plan  of  the  popular  writer  or 
lecturer  is  not  to  say  the  best  he  knows  in  as  few  and 
well-chosen  words  as  he  can,  making  it  his  first  aim  to  do 
justice  to  the  subject.  Rather  he  seeks  to  beat  cut  a  thought 
as  thin  as  possible,  and  to  consider  what  the  audience  will  be 
most  willing  to  receive. 

The  result  of  such  a  course  is  inevitable.  Literature  and 
art  must  become  daily  more  degraded;  philosophy  cannot 
exist.  A  man  who  feels  within  his  mind  some  spark  of 
genius,  or  a  capacity  for  the  exercises  of  talent,  should  con 
sider  himself  as  endowed  with  a  sacred  commission.  He  is 
the  natural  priest,  the  shepherd  of  the  people.  He  must 
raise  his  mind  as  high  as  he  can  towards  the  heaven  of  truth, 
and  try  to  draw  up  with  him  those  less  gifted  by  nature  with 
ethereal  lightness.  If  he  does  not  so,  but  rather  employs  his 
powers  to  flatter  them  in  their  poverty,  and  to  hinder  aspira 
tion  by  useless  words,  and  a  mere  seeming  of  activity,  his  sin 
is  great ;  he  is  false  to  God,  and  false  to  man. 

Much  of  this  sin  indeed  is  done  ignorant ly.  The  idea  that 
literature  calls  men  to  the  genuine  hierarchy  is  almost  for 
gotten.  One,  who  finds  himself  able,  uses  his  pen,  as  he 
might  a  trowel,  solely  to  procure  himself  bread,  without  hav 
ing  reflected  on  the  position  in  which  he  thereby  places 
himself. 

Apart  from  the  troop  of  mercenaries,  there  is  one,  still 
larger,  of  those  who  use  their  powers  merely  for  local  and 
temporary  ends,  aiming  at  no  excellence  other  than  may  con 
duce  to  these.  Among  these  rank  persons  of  honor  and  the 
best  intentions  ;  but  they  neglect  the  lasting  for  the  transient, 
as  a  man  neglects  to  furnish  his  mind  that  he  may  provide  the 
better  for  the  house  in  which  his  body  is  to  dwell  for  a  few 
years. 

At  a  period  when  these  sins  and  errors  are  prevalent,  and 
threaten  to  become  more  so,  how  can  we  sufficiently  prize  and 
honor  a  mind  which  is  quite  pure  from  such  ?  When,  as  in  the 


EMERSON'S  ESSAYS.  193 

present  case,  we  find  a  man  whose  only  aim  is  the  discernment 
and  interpretation  of  the  spiritual  laws  by  which  we  live,  and 
move,  and  have  our  being,  all  whose  objects  are  permanent, 
and  whose  every  word  stands  for  a  fact. 

If  only  as  a  representative  of  the  claims  of  individual  cul 
ture  in  a  nation  which  is  prone  to  lay  such  stress  on  artificial 
organization  and  external  results,  Mr.  Emerson  would  be  in 
valuable  here.  History  will  inscribe  his  name  as  a  father  of 
his  country,  for  he  is  one  who  pleads  her  cause  against  herself. 

If  New  England  may  be  regarded  as  a  chief  mental  focus 
to  the  New  "World,  —  and  many  symptoms  seem  to  give  her  this 
place,  —  as  to  other  centres  belong  the  characteristics  of  heart 
and  lungs  to  the  body  politic ;  if  we  may  believe,  as  we 
do  believe,  that  what  is  to  be  acted  out,  in  the  country  at 
large,  is,  most  frequently,  first  indicated  there,  as  all  the  phe 
nomena  of  the  nervous  system  are  in  the  fantasies  of  the  brain, 
we  may  hail  as  an  auspicious  omen  the  influence  Mr.  Emer 
son  has  there  obtained,  which  is  deep-roofed,  increasing,  and, 
over  the  younger  portion  of  the  community,  far  greater  than 
that  of  any  other  person. 

His  books  are  received  there  with  a  more  ready  intelli 
gence  than  elsewhere,  partly  because  his  range  of  personal 
experience  and  illustration  applies  to  that  region ;  partly  be 
cause  he  has  prepared  the  way  for  his  books  to  be  read  by 
his  great  powers  as  a  speaker. 

The  audience  that  waited  for  years  upon  the  lectures,  a 
part  of  which  is  incorporated  into  these  volumes  of  Essays, 
was  never  large,  but  it  was  select,  and  it  was  constant.  Among 
the  hearers  were  some,  who,  though,  attracted  by  the  beauty 
of  character  and  manner,  they  were  willing  to  hear  the  speaker 
through,  yet  always  went  away  discontented.  They  were  accus 
tomed  to  an  artificial  method,  whose  scaffolding  could  easily 
be  retraced,  and  desired  an  obvious  sequence  of  logical  infer 
ences.  They  insisted  there  was  nothing  in  what  they  had 
heard,  because  they  could  not  give  a  clear  account  of  its 
17 


194  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

course  and  purport.  They  did  not  see  that  Pindar's  odes 
might  be  very  well  arranged  for  their  own  purpose,  and  yet 
not  bear  translating  into  the  methods  of  Mr.  Locke. 

Others  were  content  to  be  benefited  by  a  good  influence, 
without  a  strict  analysis  of  its  means.  "  My  wife  says  it  is 
about  the  elevation  of  human  nature,  and  so  it  seems  to  me, " 
was  a  fit  reply  to  some  of  the  critics.  Many  were  satisfied 
to  find  themselves  excited  to  congenial  thought  and  nobler  life, 
without  an  exact  catalogue  of  the  thoughts  of  the  speaker. 

Those  who  believed  no  truth  could  exist,  unless  encased  by 
the  burrs  of  opinion,  went  away  utterly  baffled.  Sometimes 
they  thought  he  was  on  their  side  ;  then  presently  would  come 
something  on  the  other.  He  really  seemed  to  believe  there 
were  two  sides  to  every  subject,  and  even  to  intimate  higher 
ground,  from  which  each  might  be  seen  to  have  an  infinite 
number  of  sides  or  bearings,  an  impertinence  not  to  be  en 
dured  !  The  partisan  heard  but  once,  and  returned  no  more. 

But  some  there  were,  —  simple  souls,  —  whose  life  had  been, 
perhaps,  without  clear  light,  yet  still  a-search  after  truth  for 
its  own  sake,  who  were  able  to  receive  what  followed  on  the 
suggestion  of  a  subject  in  a  natural  manner,  as  a  stream  of 
thought.  These  recognized,  beneath  the  veil  of  words,  the 
still  small  voice  of  conscience,  the  vestal  fires  of  lone  religious 
hours,  and  the  mild  teachings  of  the  summer  woods. 

The  charm  of  the  elocution,  too,  was  great.  His  general 
manner  was  that  of  the  reader,  occasionally  rising  into  direct 
address  or  invocation  in  passages  where  tenderness  or  majesty 
demanded  more  energy.  At  such  times  both  eye  and  voice 
called  on  a  remote  future  to  give  a  worthy  reply,  —  a  future 
which  shall  manifest  more  largely  the  universal  soul  as  it  was 
then  manifest  to  this  soul.  The  tone  of  the  voice  was  a  grave 
body  tone,  full  and  sweet  rather  than  sonorous,  yet  flexible, 
and  haunted  by  many  modulations,  as  even  instruments  of 
wood  and  brass  seem  to  become  after  they  have  been  long 
played  on  with  skill  and  taste ;  how  much  more  so  the  human 


EMERSON'S  ESSAYS.  195 

voice  !  In  the  more  expressive  passages  it  uttered  notes  of 
silvery  clearness,  winning,  yet  still  more  commanding.  The 
words  uttered  in  those  tones  floated  a  while  above  us,  then 
took  root  in  the  memory  like  winged  seed. 

In  the  union  of  an  even  rustic  plainness  with  lyric  inspira 
tions,  religious  dignity  with  philosophic  calmness,  keen  sagaci 
ty  in  details  with  boldness  of  view,  we  saw  what  brought  to 
mind  the  early  poets  and  legislators  of  Greece  —  men  who 
taught  their  fellows  to  plough  and  avoid  moral  evil,  sing  hymns 
to  the  gods,  and  watch  the  metamorphoses  of  nature.  Here 
in  civic  Boston  was  such  a  man  —  one  who  could  see  man  in 
his  original  grandeur  and  his  original  childishness,  rooted  in 
simple  nature,  raising  to  the  heavens  the  brow  and  eyes  of  a 
poet. 

And  these  lectures  seemed  not  so  much  lectures  as  grave 
didactic  poems,  theogonies,  perhaps,  adorned  by  odes  when 
some  power  was  in  question  whom  the  poet  had  best  learned 
to  serve,  and  with  eclogues  wisely  portraying  in  familiar 
tongue  the  duties  of  man  to  man  and  "  harmless  animals." 

Such  was  the  attitude  in  which  the  speaker  appeared  to 
that  portion  of  the  audience  who  have  remained  permanently  at 
tached  to  him.  They  value  his  words  as  the  signets  of  reality  ; 
receive  his  influence  as  a  help  and  incentive  to  a  nobler  disci 
pline  than  the  age,  in  its  general  aspect,  appears  to  require ; 
and  do  not  fear  to  anticipate  the  verdict  of  posterity  in  claim 
ing  for  him  the  honors  of  greatness,  and,  in  some  respects,  of 
a  master. 

In  New  England  Mr.  Emerson  thus  formed  for  himself  a 
class  of  readers  who  rejoice  to  study  in  his  books  what  they 
already  know  by  heart.  For,  though  the  thought  has  become 
familiar,  its  beautiful  garb  is  always  fresh  and  bright  in  hue. 

A  similar  circle  of  "like-minded  "  persons  the  books  must  and 
do  form  for  themselves,  though  with  a  movement  less  directly 
powerful,  as  more  distant  from  its  source. 

The  Essays  have  also  been  obnoxious  to  many  charges; 


196  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

to  that  of  obscurity,  or  want  of  perfect  articulation  ;  of 
"  euphuism,"  as  an  excess  of  fancy  in  proportion  to  imagina 
tion,  and  an  inclination,  at  times,  to  subtlety  at  the  expense  of 
strength,  have  been  styled.  The  human  heart  complains  of 
inadequacy,  either  in  the  nature  or  experience  of  the  writer, 
to  represent  its  full  vocation  and  its  deeper  needs.  Some 
times  it  speaks  of  this  want  as  "  under  development,"  or  a 
want  of  expansion  which  may  yet  be  remedied;  sometimes 
doubts  whether  "  in  this  mansion  there  be  either  hall  or  portal 
to  receive  the  loftier  of  the  passions."  Sometimes  the  soul  is 
deified  at  the  expense  of  nature,  then  again  nature  at  that  of 
man  ;  and  we  are  not  quite  sure  that  we  can  make  a  true  har 
mony  by  balance  of  the  statements.  This  writer  has  never 
written  one  good  work,  if  such  a  work  be  one  where  the 
whole  commands  more  attention  than  the  parts,  or  if  such  a 
one  be  produced  only  where,  after  an  accumulation  of  mate 
rials,  fire  enough  be  applied  to  fuse  the  whole  into  one  new 
substance.  This  second  series  is  superior  in  this  respect  to 
the  former ;  yet  in  no  one  essay  is  the  main  stress  so  obvious 
as  to  produce  on  the  mind  the  harmonious  effect  of  a  noble 
river  or  a  tree  in  full  leaf.  Single  passages  and  sentences  en 
gage  our  attention  too  much  in  proportion.  These  Essays,  it 
has  been  justly  said,  tire  like  a  string  of  mosaics  or  a  house 
built  oi  medals.  We  miss  what  we  expect  in  the  work  of  the 
great  poet,  or  the  great  philosopher  —  the  liberal  air  of  all  the 
zones ;  'the  glow,  uniform  yet  various  in  tint,  which  is  given 
to  a  body  by  free  circulation  of  the  heart's  blood  from  the 
hour  of  birth.  Here  is,  undoubtedly,  the  man  of  ideas ;  but 
we  want  the  ideal  man  also  —  want  the  heart  and  genius  of 
human  life  to  interpret  it ;  and  here  our  satisfaction  is  not  so 
perfect.  We  doubt  this  friend  raised  himself  too  early  to  the 
perpendicular,  and  did  not  lie  along  the  ground  long  enough  to 
hear  the  secret  whispers  of  our  parent  life.  We  could  wish 
he  might  be  thrown  by  conflicts  on  the  lap  of  mother  earth, 
to  see  if  he  would  not  rise  again  with  added  powers. 


EMERSON'S  ESSAYS.  197 

All  this  we  may  say,  but  it  cannot  excuse  us  from  benefit 
ing  by  the  great  gifts  that  have  been  given,  and  assigning 
them  their  due  place. 

Some  painters  paint  on  a  red  ground.  And  this  color  may 
be  supposed  to  represent  the  groundwork  most  immediately 
congenial  to  most  men,  as  it  is  the  color  of  blood,  and  repre 
sents  human  vitality.  The  figures  traced  upon  it  are  instinct 
with  life  in  its  fulness  and  depth. 

But  other  painters  paint  on  a  gold  ground.  And  a  very 
different,  but  no  less  natural,  because  also  a  celestial  beauty, 
is  given  to  their  works  who  choose  for  their  foundation  the 
color  of  the  sunbeam,  which  Nature  has  preferred  for  her 
most  precious  product,  and  that  which  will  best  bear  the  test 
of  purification — gold. 

If  another  simile  may  be  allowed,  another  no  less  apt  is  at 
hand.  Wine  is  the  most  brilliant  and  intense  expression  of 
the  powers  of  earth.  It  is  her  potable  fire,  her  answer  to 
the  sun.  It  exhilarates,  it  inspires,  but  then  it  is  liable  to 
fever  and  intoxicate,  too,  the  careless  partaker. 

Mead  was  the  chosen  drink  of  the  northern  gods.  And 
this  essence  of  the  honey  of  the  mountain  bee  was  not  thought 
unworthy  to  revive  the  souls  of  the  valiant  who  had  left  their 
bodies  on  the  fields  of  strife  below. 

Nectar  should  combine  the  virtues  of  the  ruby  wine,  the 
golden  mead,  without  their  defects  or  dangers. 

Two  high  claims  on  the  attention  of  his  contemporaries  our 
writer  can  vindicate.  One  from  his  sincerity.  You  have 
his  thought  just  as  it  found  place  in  the  life  of  his  own  soul. 
Thus,  however  near  or  relatively  distant  its  approximation  to 
absolute  truth,  its  action  on  you  cannot  fail  to  be  healthful. 
It  is  a  part  of  the  free  air. 

Emerson  belongs  to  that  band  of  whom  there  maybe  found  a 

few  in  every  age,  and  who  now  in  known  human  history  may 

be  counted  by  hundreds,  who  worship  the  one  God  only,  the 

God  of  Truth.     They  worship,  not  saints,  nor  creeds,  nor 

17* 


198  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

churches,  nor  reliques,  nor  idols  in  any  form.  The  mind  is 
kept  open  to  truth,  and  life  only  valued  as  a  tendency  towards 
it.  This  must  be  illustrated  by  acts  and  words  of  love,  pu 
rity  and  intelligence.  Such  are  the  salt  of  the  earth ;  let 
the  minutest  crystal  of  that  salt  be  willingly  by  us  held  in 
solution. 

The  other  claim  is  derived  from  that  part  of  his  life,  which, 
if  sometimes  obstructed  or  chilled  by  the  critical  intellect,  is 
yet  the  prevalent  and  the  main  source  of  his  power.  It  is 
that  by  which  he  imprisons  his  hearer  only  to  free  him  again 
as  a  "liberating  God,"  (to  use  his  own  words.)  But, indeed, 
let  us  use  them  altogether,  for  none  other,  ancient  or  modern, 
can  more  worthily  express  how,  making  present  to  us  the 
courses  and  destinies  of  nature,  he  invests  himself  with  her 
serenity  and  animates  us  with  her  joy. 

"  Poetry  was  all  written  before  time  was ;  and  whenever  we 
are  so  finely  organized  that  we  can  penetrate  into  that  region 
where  the  air  is  music,  we  hear  those  primal  warblings,  and 
attempt  to  write  them  down,  but  we  lose  ever  and  anon  a 
word  or  a  verse,  and  substitute  something  of  our  own,  and 
thus  mis  write  the  poem.  The  men  of  more  delicate  ear  write 
down  these  cadences  more  faithfully,  and  these  transcripts, 
though  imperfect,  become  the  songs  of  the  nations." 

Thus  have  we,  in  a  brief  and  unworthy  manner,  indicated 
some  views  of  these  books.  The  only  true  criticism  of  these 
or  any  good  books  may  be  gained  by  making  them  the  com 
panions  of  our  lives.  Does  every  accession  of  knowledge  or 
a  juster  sense  of  beauty  make  us  prize  them  more  ?  Then 
they  are  good,  indeed,  and  more  immortal  than  mortal.  Let 
that  test  be  applied  to  these  Essays  which  will  lead  to  great 
and  complete  poems  —  somewhere. 


CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT.* 

WE  have  had  this  book  before  us  for  several  weeks,  but  the 
task  of  reading  it  has  been  so  repulsive  that  we  have  been 
obliged  to  get  through  it  by  short  stages,  with  long  intervals 
of  rest  and  refreshment  between,  and  have  only  just  reached 
the  end.  We  believe,  however,  we  are  now  possessed  of  its 
substance,  so  far  as  it  is  possible  to  admit  into  any  mind 
matter  wholly  uncongenial  with  its  structure,  its  faith,  and 
its  hope. 

Meanwhile  others  have  shown  themselves  more  energetic 
in  the  task,  and  notices  have  appeared  that  express,  in  part, 
our  own  views.  Among  others  an  able  critic  has  thus  summed 
up  his  impressions  :  — 

"  Of  the  whole  we  will  say  briefly,  that  its  premises  are 
monstrous,  its  reasoning  sophistical,  its  conclusions  absurd,  and 
its  spirit  diabolic." 

We  know  not  that  we  can  find  a  better  scheme  of  arrange 
ment  for  what  we  have  to  say  than  by  dividing  it  into  sections 
under  these  four  heads  :  — 

1st.  The  premises  are  monstrous.  Here  we  must  add  the 
qualification,  they  are  monstrous  to  us.  The  God  of  these 
writers  is  not  the  God  we  recognize ;  the  views  they  have  of 
human  nature  are  antipodal  to  ours.  We  believe  in  a  Crea 
tive  Spirit,  the  essense  of  whose  being  is  Love.  He  has 
created  men  in  the  spirit  of  love,  intending  to  develop  them  to 

*  A  Defence  of  Capital  Punishment,  and  an  Essay  on  the  Ground  and 
Reason  of  Punishment,  with  Special  Reference  to  the  Penalty  of  Death. 
New  York,  1846. 

(199) 


200  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

perfect  harmony  with  himself.  He  has  permitted  the  tempo 
rary  existence  of  evil  as  a  condition  necessary  to  bring  out  in 
them  free  agency  and  individuality  of  character.  Punishment 
is  the  necessary  result  of  a  bad  choice  in  them ;  it  is  not 
meant  by  him  as  vengeance,  but  as  an  admonition  to  choose 
better.  Man  is  not  born  totally  evil ;  he  is  born  capable  both 
of  good  and  evil,  and  the  Holy  Spirit  in  working  on  him  only 
quickens  the  soul  already  there  to  know  its  Father.  To  one 
who  takes  such  views  the  address  of  Jesus  becomes  intelligi 
ble  — "  Be  ye  therefore  merciful,  as  your  Father  also  is 
merciful."  "  For  with  the  same  measure  that  ye  mete  withal, 
it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again." 

Those  who  take  these  views  of  the  relation  between  God 
and  man  must  naturally  tend  to  have  punishment  consist  as 
much  as  possible  in  the  inward  spiritual  results  of  faults, 
rather  than  a  violent  outward  enforcement  of  penalty.  They 
must,  so  far  as  possible,  seek  to  revere  God  by  showing  them 
selves  brotherly  to  man ;  and  if  they  wish  to  obey  Christ, 
will  not  forget  that  he  came  especially  to  call  sinners  to  re 
pentance. 

The  views  of  these  writers  are  the  opposite  of  all  this.  We 
need  not  state  them ;  they  are  sufficiently  indicated  in  each 
page  of  their  own.  Their  conclusions  are  the  natural  result 
of  such  premises.  We  could  say  nothing  about  either,  except 
to  express  dissent  from  beginning  to  end.  Yet  would  it  be 
sweet  and  noble,  and  worthy  of  this  late  period  of  human 
progress,  if  their  position  had  been  stated  in  a  spirit  of  reli 
gious,  of  manly  courtesy ;  if  they  had  had  the  soul  to  say, 
"  We  differ  from  you,  but  we  know  that  so  wide  and  full  a 
stream  of  thought  and  emotion  as  you  are  moved  by  could 
not,  under  the  providential  rule  in  which  we  believe,  have 
arisen  in  vain.  The  object  of  every  such  manifestation  of  life 
must  be  to  bring  out  truth ;  come,  let  us  seek  it  together. 
Let  us  show  you  our  view,  compare  it  with  yours,  and  let  us 
see  which  is  the  better.  If,  as  we  think,  the  truth  lie  with  us, 


CAPITAL    PUNISHMENT.  201 

what  joy  will  it  be  for  us  to  cast  the  clear  light  on  the  object 
of  your  aspirations  ! " 

Of  this  degree  of  liberality  we  have  known  some,  even,  who 
served  the  same  creed  as  these  writers  to  be  capable.  There 
is,  indeed,  a  higher  spirit,  which,  believing  all  forms  of  opinion 
which  we  hold  in  the  present  stage  of  our  growth  can  be  but 
approximations  to  truth,  and  that  God  has  permitted  to  the 
multitude  of  men  a  multitude  of  ways  by  which  they  may 
approach  one  common  goal,  looks  with  reverence  on  all  modes 
of  faith  sincerely  held  and  acted  upon,  and  while  it  rejoices  in 
those  souls  which  have  reached  the  higher  stages  of  spiritual 
growth,  has  no  despair  as  to  those  which  still  grope  in  a  narrow 
path  and  by  a  glimmering  light.  Such  liberality  is,  of  course, 
out  of  the  question  with  such  writers  as  the  present.  Their 
faith  binds  them  to  believe  that  they  have  absolute  truth,  and 
that  all  who  do  not  believe  as  they  do  are  wretched  heretics. 
Those  whose  creed  is  of  narrower  scope  are  to  them  hateful 
bigots ;  but  also  those  with  whom  it  is  of  wider  are  latitudina- 
rians  or  infidels.  The  spot  of  earth  on  which  they  stand  is 
the  only  one  safe  from  the  conflagration,  and  only  through 
spectacles  and  spyglasses  such  as  are  used  by  them  can  the 
sun  and  stars  be  seen.  Yet,  as  we  said  before,  some  such, 
though  incapacitated  for  an  intellectual,  are  not  so  for  a  spir 
itual  tolerance.  With  them  the  heart,  more  Christ-like  than 
the  creed,  urges  to  a  spirit  of  love  and  reverence  even  towards 
convictions  opposed  to  their  own  The  sincere  man  is  always 
respectable  in  their  eyes,  and  they  cannot  help  feeling  that, 
wherever  there  is  a  desire  for  truth,  there  is  the  spirit  of  God, 
and  his  true  priests  will  approach  with  gentleness,  and  do 
their  ministry  with  holy  care.  Unhappily,  it  is  very  different 
with  the  persons  before  us. 

We  let  go  the  first  two  counts  of  the  indictment.  Their 
premises  are,  as  we  have  said,  such  as  we  totally  dissent  from, 
and  their  conclusions  such  as  naturally  flow  from  those  prem 
ises.  Yet  they  are  those  of  a  large  body  of  men,  and  there 


202  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

must,  no  doubt,  be  temporary  good  in  this  state  of  things,  or 
it  would  not  be  permitted.  When  these  writers  say,  that  to 
them  moral  and  penal  are  coincident  terms,  they  display  a 
state  of  mind  which  prefers  basing  virtue  on  the  fear  of  pun 
ishment,  rather  than  the  love  of  right.  If  this  be  sincerely 
their  state,  if  the  idea  of  morality  is  with  them  entirely  de 
pendent  on  the  retributions  upon  vice,  rather  than  the  loveli 
ness  and  joys  of  goodness,  it  is  impossible  for  those  who  are 
in  a  different  state  of  mind  to  say  what  they  do  need.  It  may 
seem  to  us,  indeed,  that,  if  the  strait  jacket  was  taken  off,  they 
might  recover  the  natural  energy  of  their  frames,  and  do  far 
better  without  it ;  or  that,  if  no  longer  hurried  along  the  road 
by  the  impending  lash  behind,  they  might  uplift  their  eyes, 
and  find  sufficient  cause  for  speed  in  the  glory  visible  before, 
though  at  a  distance ;  however,  it  is  not  for  us  to  say  what 
their  wants  are.  Let  them  choose  their  own  principles  of 
action,  and  if  they  lead  to  purity  of  life,  and  benevolence, 
and  humanity  of  heart,  we  will  not  say  a  word  against 
them. 

But  in  the  instance  before  us,  they  do  not  produce  these 
good  fruits,  but  the  contrary ;  and  therefore  we  have  some 
thing  to  say  on  the  other  part  of  the  criticism,  to  wit :  that 
"  the  reasoning  is  sophistical,  and  the  spirit  diabolic ; "  for, 
indeed,  in  the  sense  of  pride  by  which  the  angels  fell,  arro 
gance  of  judgment,  malice,  and  all  uncharitableness,  we  have 
never  looked  on  printed  pages  more  deeply  sinful.  We  love 
an  honest  lover ;  but  next  best,  we,  with  Dr.  Johnson,  know 
how  to  respect  an  honest  hater.  But  even  he  would  scarce 
endure  so  bitter  and  ardent  haters  as  these,  and  with  so  many 
and  inconsistent  objects  of  hatred  —  who  hate  Catholics  and 
thorough  Protestants,  hate  materialists,  and  hate  spiritualists. 
Their  list  is  really  too  large  for  human  sympathy. 

We  wish,  however,  to  make  all  due  allowance  for  inca 
pacity  in  these  writers  to  do  better ;  and  their  disqualifications 
for  their  task,  apart  from  a  form  of  belief  which  inclines  them 


CAPITAL    PUNISHMENT.  203 

rather  to  cling  to  the  past,  than  to  seek  progress  for  the  future, 
seem  to  be  many. 

The  "reasoning  is  sophistical,"  and  it  would  need  the  pa 
tience  of  a  Socrates  to  unravel  the  weary  web,  and  convince 
these  sophists,  against  their  will,  that  they  are  exactly  in  the 
opposite  region  to  what  they  suppose.  For  the  task  we 
have  not  space,  skill,  or  patience ;  but  we  can  give  some 
hints  by  which  readers  may  be  led  to  examine  whether  it  is 
so  or  not. 

These  writers  profess  to  occupy  the  position  of  defence  ; 
surely  never  was  one  sustained  so  in  the  spirit  of  offence. 

1st.  They  appeal  either  to  the  natural  or  regenerate  man, 
as  suits  their  purpose.  Sometimes  all  traditions  and  their 
literal  interpretations  are  right ;  sometimes  it  is  impossible 
to  interpret  them  aright,  unless  according  to  some  peculiar 
doctrine,  and  the  natural  inference  of  the  common  mind  would 
be  an  error. 

2d.  They  strain,  but  vainly,  to  show  the  New  Testament 
no  improvement  on  the  Old,  and  themselves  in  harmonious 
relations  to  both.  On  this  subject  we  would  confidently  leave 
the  arbitration  to  a  mind  —  could  such  a  one  be  found  — 
sufficiently  disciplined  to  examine  the  subject,  and  new  both 
to  the  New  Testament  and  this  volume,  as  that  of  Rammohun 
Roy  might  have  been,  whether  its  views  are  not  of  the  same 
strain  that  Jesus  sought  to  correct  and  enlighten  among  the 
Jews,  and  whether  the  writers  do  not  treat  the  teachings  of  the 
new  dispensation  most  unfairly,  in  their  desire  to  wrest  them 
into  the  service  of  the  old. 

3d.  Wherever  there  is  a  weak  place  in  the  argument,  it  is 
filled  up  by  abuse  of f1"-  opposite  party.  The  words  "  absurd," 
"  infidel,"  "  blasphemous,"  "  shallow  philosophy,"  "  sickly  sen- 
timentalism,"  and  the  like,  are  among  the  favorite  missiles  of 
these  defenders  of  the  truth.  They  are  of  a  sort  whose  fre 
quent  use  is  generally  supposed  to  argue  the  want  of  a  shield 
of  reason  and  a  heart  of  faith. 


204  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

And  this  brings  us  to  a  more  close  consideration  of  the 
spirit  of  this  book,  characterized  by  our  contemporary  as 
"diabolic."  And  we,  also,  cannot  excuse  ourselves  from 
marking  it  as,  in  this  respect,  one  of  the  worst  books  we  have 
ever  seen. 

It  is  not  merely  bitter  intolerance,  arrogance,  and  want  of 
spiritual  perception,  which  we  have  to  condemn  in  these 
writers.  It  is  a  want  of  fairness  and  honor,  of  which  we 
think  they  must  be  conscious.  We  fear  they  are  of  those 
who  hold  the  opinion  that  the  end  sanctifies  the  means,  and 
who,  by  pretending  to  serve  the  God  of  truth  by  other  means 
than  strict  truth,  have  drawn  upon  the  "  ministers  of  reli 
gion  "  the  frequent  obloquy  of  "  priestcraft."  How  else  are 
we  to  construe  the  artful  use  of  the  words  "  dishonest "  and 
"  infidel,"  wherever  they  are  likely  to  awaken  the  fears  and 
prejudices  of  the  ignorant  ? 

Of  as  bad  a  stamp  as  any  is  the  part  of  this  book  headed 
"  Spurious  Public  Opinion."  Here,  as  in  the  insinuations 
against  Charles  Burleigh,  we  are  unable  to  believe  the  writers 
to  be  sincere.  Where  we  think  they  are,  however  poor  and 
narrow  we  may  esteem  their  statement,  we  can  respect  it,  but 
here  we  cannot. 

Who  can  believe  that  such  passages  as  the  following  stand 
for  any  thing  real  in  the  mind  of  the  writer  ? 

"Indeed,  there  is  nothing  that  can  possibly  check  the  spirit 
of  murder,  but  the  fear  of  death.  That  was  all  that  Cain 
feared  ;  he  did  not  say,  People  will  put  me  in  prison,  but, 
They  will  put  me  to  death  ;  and  how  many  other  murders  he 
may  have  committed,  when  released  from  that  fear,  the  sacred 
writer  does  not  tell  us  !  " 

Why  does  not  the  writer  of  this  passage  draw  the  inference, 
and  accuse  God  of  mistake,  as  he  says  his  opponents  accuse 
Him,  whenever  they  attempt  to  get  beyond  the  Jewish  ideas 
of  vengeance.  He  plainly  thinks  death  was  the  only  safe 
penalty  in  this  case  of  Cain. 


CAPITAL    PUNISHMENT.  205 

"  The  reasoning  from  these  drivellings  of  depravity  in  mal 
efactors  is  to  the  last  degree  wretched  and  absurd.  Hard 
pushed  indeed  must  he  be  in  argument  who  can  consent  to 
dive  down  into  the  polluted  heart  of  a  Newgate  criminal,  in 
order  to  fish  up,  from  the  confessions  of  his  monstrous,  unnat 
ural  obduracy,  an  argument  in  that  very  obduracy  against  the 
fit  punishment  of  his  own  crimes." 

We  can  only  wish  for  such  a  man,  that  the  vicissitudes  of 
life  may  break  through  the  crust  of  theological  arrogance  and 
Phariseeism,  and  force  him  to  "  dive  down  "  into  the  depths 
of  his  own  nature.  We  should  see  afterwards  whether  he 
would  be  so  forward  to  throw  stones  at  malefactors,  so  eager 
to  hurry  souls  to  what  he  regards  as  a  final  account. 

But  we  have  said  enough  as  to  the  spirit  and  tendency  of 
this  book.  We  shall  only  add  a  few  words  as  to  the  un- 
worthy  use  of  the  word  "  infidel,"  in  the  attempt  to  fix  a 
stigma  upon  opponents.  We  feel  still  more  contempt  than 
indignation  at  the  desire  to  work  in  this  way  on  the  unthink 
ing  and  ignorant. 

We  ourselves  are  of  the  number  stigmatized  by  these  per 
sons  as  sharing  an  infidel  tendency,  as  are  all  not  enlisted 
under  their  own  sectarian  banner.  They,  on  their  side,  seem 
to  us  unbelievers  in  all  that  is  most  pure  and  holy,  and  in  the 
saving  grace  of  love.  They  do  not  believe  in  God,  as  we 
believe ;  they  seem  to  us  utterly  deficient  in  the  spirit  of 
Christ,  and  to  be  of  the  number  of  those  who  are  always  call 
ing,  "  Lord,  Lord,"  yet  never  have  known  him.  We  find 
throughout  these  pages  the  temper  of  "  Lord,  I  thank  thee 
that  I  am  not  as  other  men  are  "  —  hatred  of  those  whom 
they  deem  Gentiles,  and  a  merciless  spirit  towards  the  sinner ; 
yet  we  do  not  take  upon  ourselves  to  give  them  the  name  of 
infidels,  and  we  solemnly  call  them  to  trial  before  the  bar  of 
the  Only  Wise  and  Pure,  the  Searcher  of  hearts,  to  render  an 
account  of  this  daring  assumption.  We  ask  them  in  that 
presence,  if  they  are  not  of  the  class  threatened  with  "  retri- 
18 


206  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

bution  "  for  saying  to  their  brother,  "  Thou  fool ; "  and  that 
not  merely  in  the  heat  of  anger,  but  coolly,  pertinaciously, 
and  in  a  thousand  ways. 

We  call  to  sit  in  council  the  spirits  of  our  Puritan  fathers, 
and  ask  if  such  was  the  right  of  individual  judgment,  of  pri 
vate  conscience,  they  came  here  to  vindicate.  And  we  solicit 
the  verdict  of  posterity  as  to  whether  the  spirit  of  mercy  or 
of  vengeance  be  the  more  divine,  and  whether  the  denuncia 
tory  and  personal  mode  chosen  by  these  writers  for  carrying 
on  this  inquiry  be  the  true  one. 

We  wish  most  sincerely  this  book  had  been  a  wise  and 
noble  one.  To  ascertain  just  principles,  it  is  necessary  that 
the  discussion  should  be  full  and  fair,  and  both  sides  ably 
argued.  After  this  has  been  done,  the  sense  of  the  world 
can  decide.  It  would  be  a  happiness  for  which  it  might  seem 
that  man  at  this  time  of  day  is  ripe,  that  the  opposing  parties 
should  meet  in  open  lists  as  brothers,  believing  each  that  the 
other  desired  only  that  the  truth  should  triumph,  and  able  to 
clasp  hands  as  men  of  different  structure  and  ways  of  think 
ing,  but  fellow-students  of  the  divine  will.  O,  had  we  but 
found  such  an  adversary,  above  the  use  of  artful  abuse,  or 
the  feints  of  sophistry,  able  to  believe  in  the  noble  intention 
of  a  foe  as  of  a  friend,  how  cheerily  would  the  trumpets  ring 
out  while  the  assembled  world  echoed  the  signal  words,  "  GOD 
SPEED  THE  RIGHT  ! "  The  tide  of  progress  rolls  onward, 
swelling  more  and  more  with  the  lives  of  those  who  would 
fain  see  all  men  called  to  repentance.  It  must  be  a  strong 
arm,  indeed,  that  can  build  a  dam  to  stay  it  even  for  a  mo 
ment.  None  such  do  we  see  yet ;  but  we  should  rejoice  in  a 
noble  and  strong  opponent,  putting  forth  all  his  power  for 
conscience's  sake.  God  speed  the  Right ! 


PAET    II. 

MISCELLANIES. 


FIRST   OF  JANUARY. 

THE  new  year  dawns,  and  its  appearance  is  hailed  by  a 
flutter  of  festivity.  Men  and  women  run  from  house  to  house, 
scattering  gifts,  smiles,  and  congratulations.  It  is  a  custom 
that  seems  borrowed  from  a  better  day,  unless  indeed  it  be  a 
prophecy  that  such  must  come. 

For  why  so  much  congratulation  ?  A  year  has  passed  ;  we 
are  nearer  by  a  twelvemonth  to  the  term  of  this  earthly  pro 
bation.  It  is  a  solemn  thought ;  and  though  the  conscious 
ness  of  having  hallowed  the  days  by  our  best  endeavor,  and 
of  having  much  occasion  to  look  to  the  Ruling  Power  of  all 
with  grateful  benediction,  must,  in  cases  where  such  feelings 
are  unalloyed,  bring  joy,  one  would  think  it  must  e.ven  then 
be  a  grave  joy,  and  one  that  would  disincline  to  this  loud  gay- 
ety  in  welcoming  a  new  year ;  another  year  —  in  which  we 
may,  indeed,  strive  forward  in  a  good  spirit,  and  find  our 
strivings  blest,  but  must  surely  expect  trials,  temptations,  and 
disappointments  from  without ;  frailty,  short-coming,  or  con 
vulsion  in  ourselves. 

If  it  be  appropriate  to  a  reflective  habit  of  mind  to  ask  with 

(207) 


208  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

each  night-fall  the  Pythagorean  questions,  how  much  more  so 
at  the  close  of  the  year ! 

"  What  hast  thou  done  that's  worth  the  doing  ? 
And  what  pursued  that's  worth  pursuing  ? 
What  sought  thou  knewest  thou  shouldst  shun  ? 
What  done  thou  shouldst  have  left  undone  ?  " 

The  intellectual  man  will  also  ask,  What  new  truths  have 
been  opened  to  me,  or  what  facts  presented  that  will  lead  to 
the  discovery  of  truths  ?  The  poet  and  the  lover,  —  What 
new  forms  of  beauty  have  been  presented  for  my  delight,  and 
as  memorable  illustrations  of  the  divine  presence  —  unceasing, 
but  oftentimes  unfelt  by  our  sluggish  natures. 

Are  there  many  men  who  fail  sometimes  to  ask  them 
selves  questions  to  this  depth  ?  who  do  not  care  to  know 
whether  they  have  done  right,  or  forborne  to  do  wrong ; 
whether  their  spirits  have  been  enlightened  by  truth,  or 
kindled  by  beauty  ? 

Yes,  strange  to  say,  there  are  many  who,  despite  the  nat 
ural  aspirations  of  the  soul  and  the  revelations  showered  upon 
the  world,  think  only  whether  they  have  made  money ;  wheth 
er  the  world  thinks  more  highly  of  them  than  it  did  in  bygone 
years  ;  whether  wife  and  children  have  been  in  good  bodily 
health,  and  what  those  who  call  to  pay  their  respects  and 
drink  the  new  year's  coffee,  will  think  of  their  carpets, 
new  also. 

How  often  is  it  that  the  rich  man  thinks  even  of  that  pro 
posed  by  Dickens  as  the  noblest  employment  of  the  season, 
making  the  poor  happy  in  the  way  he  likes  "best  for  himself, 
by  distribution  of  turkey  and  plum-pudding !  Some,  indeed, 
adorn  the  day  with  this  much  grace,  though  we  doubt  whether 
it  be  oftenest  those  who  could  each,  with  ease,  make  that  one 
day  a  glimpse  of  comfort  to  a  thousand  who  pass  the  other 
winter  days  in  shivering  poverty.  But  some  such  there  are 


FIRST    OF  JANUARY.  209 

who  go  about  to  the  dark  and  frosty  dwellings,  giving  the 
"  mite  "  where  and  when  it  is  most  needed.  We  knew  a  lady, 
all  whose  riches  consisted  in  her  good  head  and  two  hands. 
Widow  of  an  eminent  lawyer,  but  keeping  boarders  for  a  live 
lihood  ;  engaged  in  that  hardest  of  occupations,  with  her  house 
full  and  her  hands  full,  she  yet  found  time  to  make  and  bake 
for  new  year's  day  a  hundred  pies  —  and  not  the  pie  from 
which,  being  cut,  issued  the  famous  four-and-twenty  black 
birds,  gave  more  cause  for  merriment,  or  was  a  fitter  "  dish 
to  set  before  the  king." 

God  bless  his  majesty,  the  good  king,  who  on  such  a  day 
cares  for  the  least  as  much  as  the  greatest ;  and  like  Henry 
IV.,  proposes  it  as  a  worthy  aim  of  his  endeavor  that  "  every 
poor  man  shall  have  his  chicken  in  the  pot."  This  does  not 
seem,  on  superficial  survey,  such  a  wonderful  boon  to  crave 
for  creatures  made  in  God's  own  likeness,  yet  is  it  one  that 
no  king  could  ever  yet  bestow  on  his  subjects,  if  we  except 
the  king  of  Cockaigne.  Our  maker  of  the  hundred  pies 
is  the  best  prophet  we  have  seen,  as  yet,  of  such  a  blissful 
state. 

But  mostly  to  him  who  hath  is  given  in  material  as  well 
as  in  spiritual  things,  and  we  fear  the  pleasures  of  this  day 
are  arranged  almost  wholly  in  reference  to  the  beautiful,  the 
healthy,  the  wealthy,  the  witty,  and  that  but  few  banquets  are 
prepared  for  the  halt,  the  blind,  and  the  sorrowful.  But  where 
they  are,  of  a  surety  water  turns  to  wine  by  inevitable  Christ- 
power  ;  no  aid  of  miracle  need  be  invoked.  As  for  thoughts 
which  should  make  an  epoch  of  the  period,  we  suppose  the 
number  of  these  to  be  in  about  the  same  proportion  to  the 
number  of  minds  capable  of  thought,  that  the  pearls  now  ex 
istent  bear  to  the  oysters  still  subsistent. 

Can  we  make  pearls  from  our  oyster-bed  ?  At  least,  let  us 
open  some  of  the  shells  and  try. 

Dear  public  and  friends  !  we  wish  you  a  happy  new  year. 
We  trust  that  the  year  past  has  given  earnest  of  such  a  one 
18* 


210  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

in  so  far  as  having  taught  you  somewhat  how  to  deserve  and 
to  appreciate  it. 

For  ourselves,  the  months  have  brought  much,  though, 
perhaps,  superficial  instruction.  Its  scope  has  been  chiefly 
love  and  hope  for  all  human  beings,  and  among  others  for 
thyself. 

We  have  seen  many  fair  poesies  of  human  life,  in  which, 
however,  the  tragic  thread  has  not  been  wanting.  We  have 
beheld  the  exquisite  developments  of  childhood,  and  sunned 
the  heart  in  its  smiles.  But  also  have  we  discerned  the  evil 
star  looming  up  that  threatened  cloud  and  wreck  to  its  future 
years.  We  have  seen  beings  of  some  precious  gifts  lost  irre 
coverably,  as  regards  this  present  life,  from  inheritance  of  a 
bad  organization  and  unfortunate  circumstances  of  early  years. 
The  victims  of  vice  we  have  observed  lying  in  the  gutter,  com- 
panied  by  vermin,  trampled  upon  by  sensuality  and  ignorance, 
and  saw  those  who  wished  not  to  rise,  and  those  who  strove 
so  to  do,  but  fell  back  through  weakness.  Sadder  and  more 
ominous  still,  we  have  seen  the  good  man  —  in  many  impulses 
and  acts  of  most  pure,  most  liberal,  and  undoubted  goodness 
—  yet  have  we  noted  a  spot  of  base  indulgence,  a  fibre  of 
brutality  canker  in  a  vital  part  this  fine  plant,  and,  while  we 
could  not  withdraw  love  and  esteem  for  the  good  we  could 
not  doubt,  have  wept  secretly  in  the  heart  for  the  ill  we 
could  not  deny.  We  have  observed  two  deaths  ;  one  of  the 
sinner,  early  cut  down ;  one  of  the  just,  full  of  years  and 
honor  —  both  were  calm  ;  both  professed  their  reliance  on  the 
wisdom  of  a  heavenly  Father.  We  have  looked  upon  the 
beauteous  shows  of  nature  in  undisturbed  succession,  holy 
moonlight  on  the  snows,  loving  moonlight  on  the  summer 
fields,  the  stars  which  disappoint  never  and  bless  ever,  the 
flowing  waters  which  soothe  and  stimulate,  a  garden  of  roses 
calling  for  queens  among  women,  poets  and  heroes  among 
men.  We  have  marked  a  desire  to  answer  to  this  call,  and 
genius  brought  rich  wine,  but  spilt  it  on  the  way,  from  her 


FIRST   OF   JANUARY.  211 

careless,  fickle  gait ;  and  virtue  tainted  with  a  touch  of  the 
peacock ;  and  philosophy,  never  enjoying,  always  seeking, 
had  got  together  all  the  materials  for  the  crowning  experi 
ment,  but  there  was  no  love  to  kindle  the  fire  under  the  fur 
nace,  and  the  precious  secret  is  not  precipitated  yet,  for  the 
pot  will  not  boil  to  make  the  gold  through  your 

"  Double,  double, 
Toil  and  trouble," 

if  love  do  not  fan  the  fire. 

We  have  seen  the  decay  of  friendships  unable  to  endure  the 
light  of  an  ideal  hope  —  have  seen,  too,  their  resurrection  in 
a  faith  and  hope  beyond  the  tomb,  where  the  form  lies  we  once 
so  fondly  cherished.  It  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth ;  and  we 
watch,  but  must  weep,  too,  sometimes,  for  the  night  is  cold 
and  lonely  in  the  place  of  tombs. 

Nature  has  appeared  dressed  in  her  veil  of  snowy  flowers  for 
the  bridal.  We  have  seen  her  brooding  over  her  joys,  a  young 
mother  in  the  pride  and  fulness  of  beauty,  and  then  bearing  her 
offspring  to  their  richly  ornamented  sepulchre,  and  lately  ob 
served  her  as  if  kneeling  with  folded  hands  in  the  stillness  of 
prayer,  while  the  bare  trees  and  frozen  streams  bore  witness 
to  her  patience. 

O,  much,  much  have  we  seen,  and  a  little  learned.  Such  is 
the  record  of  the  private  mind  ;  and  yet,  as  the  bright  snake- 
skin  is  cast,  many  sigh  and  cry,  — = 

"  The  wiser  mind 

Mourns  less  for  what  Time  takes  away 
Than  what  he  leaves  behind." 

But  for  ourselves,  we  find  there  is  kernel  in  the  nut,  though 
its  ripening  be  deferred  till  the  late  frosty  weather,  and  it 
prove  a  hard  nut  to  crack  even  then.  Looking  at  the  indi 
vidual,  we  see  a  degree  of  growth,  or  the  promise  of  such. 
In  the  child  there  is  a  force  which  will  outlast  the  wreck,  and 


212  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

reach  at  last  the  promised  shore.  The  good  man,  once  roused 
from  his  moral  lethargy,  shall  make  atonement  for  his  fault, 
and  endure  a  penance  that  will  deepen  and  purify  his  whole 
nature.  The  poor  lost  ones  claim  a  new  trial  in  a  new  life, 
and  will  there,  we  trust,  seize  firmer  hold  on  the  good  for  the 
experience  they  have  had  of  the  bad. 

"  "We  never  see  the  stars 
Till  we  can  see  nought  else." 

The  seeming  losses  are,  in  truth,  but  as  pruning  of  the  vine 
to  make  the  grapes  swell  more  richly. 

But  how  is  it  with  those  larger  individuals,  the  nations, 
and  that  congress  of  such,  the  world?  We  must  take  a 
broad  and  superficial  view  of  these,  as  we  have  of  private  life  ; 
and  in  neither  case  can  more  be  done.  The  secrets  of  the 
confessional,  or  rather  of  the  shrine,  do  not  come  on  paper, 
unless  in  poetic  form. 

So  we  will  not  try  to  search  and  mine,  but  only  to  look  over 
the  world  from  an  ideal  point  of  view. 

Here  we  find  the  same  phenomena  repeated;  the  good 
nation  is  yet  somehow  so  sick  at  heart  that  you  are  not  sure 
its  goodness  will  ever  produce  a  harmony  of  life ;  over  the 
young  nation,  (our  own,)  rich  in  energy  and  full  of  glee,  brood 
terrible  omens ;  others,  as  Poland  and  Italy,  seem  irrecover 
ably  lost.  They  may  revive,  but  we  feel  as  if  it  must  be 
under  new  forms. 

Forms  come  and  go,  but  principles  are  developed  and  dis 
played  more  and  more.  The  caldron  simmers,  and  so  great  is 
the  fire  that  we  expect  it  soon  to  boil  over,  and  new  fates 
appear  for  Europe. 

Spain  is  dying  by  inches ;  England  shows  symptoms  of 
having  passed  her  meridian ;  Austria  has  taken  opium,  but 
she  must  awake  ere  long;  France  is  in  an  uneasy  dream  — 
she  knows  she  has  been  very  sick,  has  had  terrible  remedies 
administered,  and  ought  to  be  getting  thoroughly  well,  which 


FIRST   OF   JANUARY.  213 

she  is  not.  Louis  Philippe  watches  by  her  pillow,  doses  and 
bleeds  her,  so  that  she  cannot  fairly  try  her  strength,  and  find 
whether  something  or  nothing  has.  been  done.  But  Louis 
Philippe  and  Metternich  must  soon,  in  the  course  of  nature, 
leave  this  scene  ;  and  then  there  will  be  none  to  keep  out  air 
and  light  from  the  chamber,  and  the  patients  will  be  roused 
and  ascertain  their  true  condition. 

No  power  is  in  the  ascending  course  except  the  Russian ; 
and  that  has  such  a  condensation  of  brute  force,  animated  by 
despotic  will,  that  it  seems  sometimes  as  if  it  might  by  and 
by  stride  over  Europe  and  face  us  across  the  water.  Then 
would  be  opposed  to  one  another  the  two  extremes  of  Autoc 
racy  and  Democracy,  and  a  trial  of  strength  would  ensue  be 
tween  the  two  principles  more  grand  and  full  than  any  ever 
seen  on  this  planet,  and  of  which  the  result  must  be  to  bind 
mankind  by  one  chain  of  convictions.  Should,  indeed,  Des 
potism  and  Democracy  meet  as  the  two  slaveholding  powers 
of  the  world,  the  result  can  hardly  be  predicted.  But  there  is 
room  in  the  intervening  age  for  many  changes,  and  the  czars 
profess  to  wish  to  free  their  serfs,  as  our  planters  do  to  free 
their  slaves,  and  we  suppose  with  equal  sincerity ;  but  the 
need  of  sometimes  professing  such  desires  is  a  deference  to 
the  progress  of  principles  which  bid  fair  to  have  their  era  yet. 

We  hope  such  an  era  steadfastly,  notwithstanding  the  deeds 
of  darkness  that  have  made  this  year  forever  memorable  in 
our  annals.  Our  nation  has  indeed  shown  that  the  lust  of 
gain  is  at  present  her  ruling  passion.  She  is  not  only  resolute, 
but  shameless,  about  it,  and  has  no  doubt  or  scruple  as  to  lay 
ing  aside  the  glorious  office,  assigned  her  by  fate,  of  herald 
of  freedom,  light,  and  peace  to  the  civilized  world. 

Yet  we  must  not  despair.  Even  so  the  Jewish  king, 
crowned  with  all  gifts  that  Heaven  could  bestow,  was  intoxi 
cated  by  their  plenitude,  and  went  astray  after  the  most 
worthless  idols.  But  he  was  not  permitted  to  forfeit  finally 
the  position  designed  for  him :  he  was  drawn  or  dragged  back 


214  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

to  it ;  and  so  shall  it  be  with  this  nation.     There  are  trials  in 
store  which  shall  amend  us. 

We  must  believe  that. the  pure  blood  shown  in  the  time  of 
our  revolution  still  glows  in  the  heart;  but  the  body  of  our 
nation  is  full  of  foreign  elements.  A  large  proportion  of  our 
citizens,  or  their  parents,  came  here  for  worldly  advantage, 
and  have  never  raised  their  minds  to  any  idea  of  destiny  or 
duty.  More  money — more  land!  are  all  the  watchwords 
they  know.  They  have  received  the  inheritance  earned  by 
the  fathers  of  the  revolution,  without  their  wisdom  and  vir 
tue  to  use  it.  But  this  cannot  last.  The  vision  of  those 
prophetic  souls  must  be  realized,  else  the  nation  could  not 
exist ;  every  body  must  at  least  "  have  soul  enough  to  save 
the  expense  of  salt,"  or  it  cannot  be  preserved  alive. 

What  a  year  it  has  been  with  us !  Texas  annexed,  and 
more  annexations  in  store  ;  slavery  perpetuated,  as  the  most 
striking  new  feature  of  these  movements.  Such  are  the  fruits 
of  American  love  of  liberty  !  Mormons  murdered  and  driven 
out,  as  an  expression  of  American  freedom  of  conscience ; 
Cassius  Clay's  paper  expelled  from  Kentucky;  that  is  Amer 
ican  freedom  of  the  press.  And  all  these  deeds  defended  on 
the  true  Russian  grounds,  "  We  (the  stronger)  know  what 
you  (the  weaker)  ought  to  do  and  be,  and  it  shall  be  so." 

Thus  the  principles  which  it  was  supposed,  some  ten  years 
back,  had  begun  to  regenerate  the  world,  are  left  without  a 
trophy  for  this  past  year,  except  in  the  spread  of  Ronge's 
movement  in  Germany,  and  that  of  associative  and  commu 
nist  principles  both  here  and  in  Europe,  which,  let  the  world 
ling  deem  as  he  will  about  their  practicability,  he  cannot 
deny  to  be  animated  by  faith  in  God  and  a  desire  for  the  good 
of  man.  We  must  add  to  these  the  important  symptoms  of 
the  spread  of  peace  principles. 

Meanwhile,  if  the  more  valuable  springs  of  action  seem  to 
lie  dormant  for  a  time,  there  is  a  constant  invention  and  per 
fection  of  the  means  of  action  and  communication  which  seems 


FIRST   OF  JANUARY.  215 

to  say,  "  Do  but  wait  patiently ;  there  is  something  of  universal 
importance  to  be  done  by  and  by,  and  all  is  preparing  for  it 
to  be  universally  known  and  used  at  once."  Else  what  avail 
magnetic  telegraphs,  steamers,  and  rail-cars  traversing  every 
rood  of  land  and  ocean,  phonography  and  the  mingling  of  all 
literatures,  till  North  embraces  South  and  Denmark  lays  her 
head  upon  the  lap  of  Italy  ?  Surely  there  would  not  be  all 
this  pomp  of  preparation  as  to  the  means  of  communion,  un 
less  there  were  like  to  be  something  worthy  to  be  communi 
cated. 

Amid  the  signs  of  the  breaking  down  of  barriers,  we  may 
mention  the  Emperor  Nicholas  letting  his  daughter  pass  from 
the  Greek  to  the  Roman  church,  for  the  sake  of  marrying  her 
to  the  Austrian  prince.  Again,  similarity  between  him  and 
us :  he,  too,  is  shameless ;  for  while  he  signs  this  marriage 
contract  with  one  hand,  he  holds  the  knout  in  the  other  to 
drive  the  Roman  Catholic  Poles  into  the  Greek  church. 
But  it  is  a  fatal  sign  for  his  empire.  'Tis  but  the  first  step 
that  costs,  and  the  Russians  may  look  back  to  the  marriage 
of  the  Grand  Duchess  Olga,  as  the  Chinese  will  to  the  can 
nonading  of  the  English,  as  the  first  sign  of  dissolution  in  the 
present  form  of  national  life. 

A  similar  token  is  given  by  the  violation  of  etiquette  of 
which  Mr.  Polk  is  accused  in  his  message.  He,  at  the  head 
of  a  government,  speaks  of  governments  and  their  doings 
straightforward,  as  he  would  of  persons,  and  the  tower,  strong 
hold  of  the  idea  of  a  former  age,  now  propped  up  by  eti 
quettes  and  civilities  only,  trembles  to  its  foundation. 

Another  sign  of  the  times  is  the  general  panic  which  the 
decay  of  the  potato  causes.  We  believe  this  is  not  without  a 
providential  meaning,  and  will  call  attention  still  more  to  the 
wants  of  the  people  at  large.  New  and  more  provident  reg 
ulations  must  be  brought  out,  that  they  may  not  again  be  left 
with  only  a  potato  between  them  and  starvation.  By  another 
of  these  whimsical  coincidences  between  the  histories  of  Aris- 


216  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

tocracy  and  Democracy,  the  supply  of  truffles  is  also  failing. 
The  land  is  losing  the  "  nice  things  "  that  the  queen  (truly  a 
young  queen)  thought  might  be  eaten  in  place  of  bread. 
Does  not  this  indicate  a  period  in  which  it  will  be  felt  that 
there  must  be  provision  for  all  —  the  rich  shall  not  have  their 
truffles  if  the  poor  are  driven  to  eat  nettles,  as  the  French 
and  Irish  have  in  bygone  ages  ? 

The  poem  of  which  we  here  give  a  prose  translation  lately 
appeared  in  Germany.  It  is  written  by  Moritz  Hartmann,  and 
contains  the  gist  of  the  matter. 

MISTRESS   POTATO. 

There  was  a  great  stately  house  full  of  people,  who  have 
been  running  in  and  out  of  its  lofty  gates  ever  since  the  gray 
times  of  Olympus.  There  they  wept,  laughed,  shouted, 
mourned,  and,  like  day  and  night,  came  the  usual  changes  of 
joys  with  plagues  and  sorrows.  Haunting  that  great  house 
up  and  down,  making,  baking,  and  roasting,  covering  and  wait 
ing  on  the  table,  has  there  lived  a  vast  number  of  years  a 
loyal  serving  maid  of  the  olden  time  —  her  name  was  Mrs. 
Potato.  She  was  a  still,  little,  old  mother,  who  wore  no  baw- 
bles  or  laces,  but  always  had  to  be  satisfied  with  her  plain, 
every-day  clothes  ;  and  unheeded,  unhonored,  oftentimes  jeered 
at  and  forgotten,  she  served  all  day  at  the  kitchen  fire,  and 
slept  at  night  in  the  worst  room.  When  she  brought  the  dishes 
to  table  she  got  rarely  a  thankful  glance ;  only  at  times  some 
very  poor  man  would  in  secret  shake  kindly  her  hand. 

Generation  after  generation  passed  by,  as  the  trees  blossom, 
bear  fruit,  and  wither;  but  faithful  remained  the  old  housemaid, 
always  the  servant  of  the  last  heir. 

But  one  morning  —  hear  what  happened.  All  the  people 
came  to  table,  and  lo !  there  was  nothing  to  eat,  for  our  good 
old  Mistress  Potato  had  not  been  able  to  rise  from  her  bed. 
She  felt  sharp  pains  creeping  through  her  poor  old  bones. 
No  wonder  she  was  worn  out  at  last !  She  had  not  in  all  her 
life  dared  take  a  day's  rest,  lest  so  the  poor  should  starve. 


FIRST    OP    JANUARY.  217 

Indeed,  it  is  wonderful  that  her  good  will  should  have  kept  her 
up  so  long.  She  must  have  had  a  great  constitution  to  begin 
with. 

The  guests  had  to  go  away  without  breakfast.  They 
were  a  little  troubled,  but  hoped  to  make  up  for  it  at  dinner 
time.  But  dinner  time  came,  and  the  table  was  empty;  and 
then,  indeed,  they  began  to  inquire  about  the  welfare  of  Cook- 
maid  Potato.  And  up  into  her  dark  chamber,  where  she  lay 
on  her  poor  bed,  came  great  and  little,  young  and  old,  to  ask 
after  the  good  creature.  "  What  can  be  done  for  her  ? " 
"  Bring  warm  clothes,  medicine,  a  better  bed."  "  Lay  aside 
your  work  to  help  her."  "  If  she  dies  we  shall  never  again 
be  able  to  fill  the  table ; "  and  now,  indeed,  they  sang  her 
praises. 

O,  what  a  fuss  about  the  sick  bed  in  that  moist  and  mouldy 
chamber!  and  out  doors  it  was  just  the  same  —  priests  with 
their  masses,  processions,  and  prayers,  and  all  the  world 
ready  to  walk  to  penance,  if  Mistress  Potato  could  but  be 
saved.  And  the  doctors  in  their  wigs,  and  counsellors  in 
masks  of  gravity,  sat  there  to  devise  some  remedy  to  avert 
this  terrible  ill. 

As  when  a  most  illustrious  dame  is  recovering  from  birth 
of  a  son,  so  now  bulletins  inform  the  world  of  the  health  of 
Mistress  Potato,  and,  not  content  with  what  they  thus  learn, 
couriers  and  lackeys  besiege  the  door ;  nay,  the  king's  coach 
is  stopping  there.  Yes !  yes !  the  humble  poor  maid,  'tis 
about  her  they  are  all  so  frightened !  Who  would  ever  have 
believed  it  in  days  when  the  table  was  nicely  covered  ? 

The  gentlemen  of  pens  and  books,  priests,  kings,  lords,  and 
ministers,  all  have  senses  to  scent  our  famine.  Natheless 
Mistress  Potato  gets  no  better.  May  God  help  her  for  the 
sake,  not  of  such  people,  but  of  the  poor.  For  the  great  it  is  a 
token  they  should  note,  that  all  must  crumble  and  fall  to  ruin, 
if  they  will  work  and  weary  to  death  the  poor  maid  who  cooks 
in  the  kitchen. 

19 


218  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

She  lived  for  you  in  the  dirt  and  ashes,  provided  daily  for 
poor  and  rich  ;  you  ought  to  humble  yourselves  for  her  sake. 
Ah,  could  we  hope  that  you  would  take  a  hint,  and  next  time 
pay  some  heed  to  the  housemaid  before  she  is  worn  and 
wearied  to  death ! 

So  sighs,  rather  than  hopes,  Moritz  Hartmann.  The  wise  min 
isters  of  England,  indeed,  seem  much  more  composed  than  he 
supposes  them.  They  are  like  the  old  man  who,  when  he  saw 
the  avalanche  coming  down  upon  his  village,  said,  "  It  is  com 
ing,  but  I  shall  have  time  to  fill  my  pipe  once  more."  He 
went  in  to  do  so,  and  was  buried  beneath  the  ruins.  But  Sir 
Robert  Peel,  who  is  so  deliberate,  has,  doubtless,  manna  in 
store  for  those  who  have  lost  their  customary  food. 

Another  sign  of  the  times  is,  that  there  are  left  on  the 
earth  none  of  the  last  dynasty  of  geniuses,  rich  in  so  many 
imperial  heads.  The  world  is  full  of  talent,  but  it  flows 
downward  to  water  the  plain.  There  are  no  towering  heights, 
no  Mont  Blancs  now.  We  cannot  recall  one  great  genius  at 
this  day  living.  The  time  of  prophets  is  over,  and  the  era 
they  prophesied  must  be  at  hand ;  in  its  conduct  a  larger  pro 
portion  of  the  human  race  shall  take  part  than  ever  before. 
As  prime  ministers  have  succeeded  kings  in  the  substantiate 
of  monarchy,  so  now  shall  a  house  of  representatives  succeed 
prime  ministers. 

Altogether,  it  looks  as  if  a  great  time  was  coming,  and  that 
time  one  of  democracy.  Our  country  will  play  a  ruling  part. 
Her  eagle  will  lead  the  van ;  but  whether  to  soar  upward  to 
the  sun  or  to  stoop  for  helpless  prey,  who  now  dares  promise? 
At  present  she  has  scarce  achieved  a  Roman  nobleness,  a  Ro 
man  liberty ;  and  whether  her  eagle  is  less  like  the  vulture, 
and  more  like  the  Phoenix,  than  was  the  fierce  Roman  bird, 
we  dare  not  say.  May  the  new  year  give  hopes  of  the  lat 
ter,  even  if  the  bird  need  first  to  be  purified  by  fire. 

Jan.  1,  1846. 


NEW  YEAR'S   DAY. 

IT  was  a  beautiful  custom  among  some  of  the  Indian  tribes, 
once  a  year,  to  extinguish  all  the  fires,  and,  by  a  day  of  fast 
ing  and  profound  devotion,  to  propitiate  the  Great  Spirit  for 
the  coming  year.  They  then  produced  sparks  by  friction,  and 
lighted  up  afresh  the  altar  and  the  hearth  with  the  new  fire. 

And  this  fire  was  considered  as  the  most  precious  and  sacred 
gift  from  one  person  to  another,  binding  them  in  bonds  of 
inviolate  friendship  for  that  year,  certainly  ;  with  a  hope  that 
the  same  might  endure  through  life.  From  the  young  to  the 
old,  it  was  a  token  of  the  highest  respect ;  from  the  old  to  the 
young,  of  a  great  expectation. 

To  us  would  that  it  might  be  granted  to  solemnize  the  new 
year  by  the  mental  renovation  of  which  this  ceremony  was  the 
eloquent  symbol.  Would  that  we  might  extinguish,  if  only  for 
a  day,  those  fires  \vher^.  an  uninformed  religious  ardor  has  led 
to  human  sacrifices  ;  which  have  warmed  the  household,  but, 
also,  prepared  pernicious,  more  than  wholesome,  viands  for 
their  use. 

The  Indian  produced  the  new  spark  by  friction.  It  would 
be  a  still  more  beautiful  emblem,  and  expressive  of  the  more 
extended  powers  of  civilized  men,  if  we  should  draw  the  spark 
from  the  centre  of  our  system  and  the  source  of  light,  by  means 
of  the  burning  glass. 

Where,  then,  is  to  be  found  the  new  knowledge,  the  new 
thought,  the  new  hope,  that  shall  begin  a  new  year  in  a  spirit 
not  discordant  with  "  the  acceptable  year  of  the  Lord "  ? 
Surely  there  must  be  such  existing,  if  latent  —  some  sparks 
of  new  fire,  pure  from  ashes  and  from  smoke,  worthy  to  be 

(219^) 


220  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

offered  as  a  new  year's  gift.  Let  us  look  at  the  signs  of  the 
times,  to  see  in  what  spot  this  fire  shall  be  sought  —  on  what 
fuel  it  may  be  fed.  The  ancients  poured  out  libations  of  the 
choicest  juices  of  earth,  to  express  their  gratitude  to  the  Power 
that  had  enabled  them  to  be  sustained  from  her  bosom.  They 
enfranchised  slaves,  to  show  that  devotion  to  the  gods  induced 
a  sympathy  with  men. 

Let  us  look  about  us  to  see  with  what  rites,  what  acts  of 
devotion,  this  modern  Christian  nation  greets  the  approach 
of  the  new  year ;  by  what  signs  she  denotes  the  clear  morn 
ing  of  a  better  day,  such  as  may  be  expected  when  the  eagle 
has  entered  into  covenant  with  the  dove. 

This  last  week  brings  tidings  that  a  portion  of  the  inhab 
itants  of  Illinois,  the  rich  and  blooming  region  on  which  every 
gift  of  nature  has  been  lavished,  to  encourage  the  industry  and 
brighten  the  hopes  of  man,  not  only  refuses  a  libation  to  the 
Power  that  has  so  blessed  their  fields,  but  declares  that  the 
dew  is  theirs,  and  the  sunlight  is  theirs  —  that  they  live  from 
and  for  themselves,  acknowledging  no  obligation  and  no  duty 
to  God  or  to  man.* 

One  man  has  freed  a  slave ;  but  a  great  part  of  the  nation 
is  now  busy  in  contriving  measures  that  may  best  rivet  the 
fetters  on  those  now  chained,  and  forge  them  strongest  for 
millions  yet  unborn. 

Selfishness  and  tyranny  no  longer  wear  the  mask;  they 
walk  haughtily  abroad,  affronting  with  their  hard-hearted 
boasts  and  brazen  resolves  the  patience  of  the  sweet  heavens. 
National  honor  is  trodden  under  foot  for  a  national  bribe,  and 
neither  sex  nor  age  defends  the  redresser  of  injuries  from  the 
rage  of  the  injurer. 

Yet,  amid  these  reports  which  come  flying  on  the  paper- 
wings  of  every  day,  the  scornful  laugh  of  the  gnomes,  who 

*  [In  refusing  to  repeal  what  are  technically  and  significantly  termed  her 
"  Black  Laws,"  relating  to  the  settlement  of  colored  men,  and  their  rights 
within  that  state.  —  ED.] 


221 

begin  to  believe  they  can  buy  all  souls  with  their  gold,  was 
checked  a  moment  when  the  aged  knight  *  of  the  better  cause 
answered  the  challenge  —  truly  in  keeping  with  the  4t  chiv 
alry  "  of  the  time  —  "  You  are  in  the  wrong,  and  I  will  kick 
you,"  by  holding  the  hands  of  the  chevalier  till  those  around 
secured  him.  We  think  the  man  of  old  must  have  held  him 
with  his  eye,  as  physicians  of  moral  power  can  insane  patients. 
Great  as  are  his  exploits  for  his  age,  he  cannot  have  much 
bodily  strength,  unless  by  miracle. 

The  treatment  of  Mr.  Adams  and  Mr.  Hoar  seems  to  show 
that  we  are  not  fitted  to  emulate  the  savages  in  preparation 
for  the  new  fire.  The  Indians  knew  how  to  reverence  the 
old  and  the  wise. 

Among  the  manifestos  of  the  day,  it  is  impossible  not  to 
respect  that  of  the  Mexican  minister  for  the  manly  indigna 
tion  with  which  he  has  uttered  truths,  however  deep  our  mor 
tification  at  hearing  them.  It  has  been  observed  for  the  last 
fifty  years,  that  the  tone  of  diplomatic  correspondence  was 
much  improved,  as  to  simplicity  and  directness.  Once,  diplo 
macy  was  another  name  for  intrigue,  and  a  paper  of  this  sort 
was  expected  to  be  a  mesh  of  artful  phrases,  through  which 
the  true  meaning  might  be  detected,  but  never  actually 
grasped.  Now,  here  is  one  where  an  occasion  being  afforded 
by  the  unutterable  folly  of  the  corresponding  party,  a  minister 
speaks  the  truth  as  it  lies  in  his  mind,  directly  and  plainly,  as 
man  speaks  to  man.  His  statement  will  command  the  sym 
pathy  of  the  civilized  world. 

As  to  the  state  papers  that  have  followed,  they  are  of  a 
nature  to  make  the  Austrian  despot  sneer,  as  he  counts  in  his 
oratory  the  woollen  stockings  he  has  got  knit  by  imprisoning 
all  the  free  geniuses  in  his  dominions.  He,  at  least,  only  ap 
peals  to  the  legitimacy  of  blood  ;  these  dare  appeal  to  legiti 
macy,  as  seen  from  a  moral  point  of  view.  History  will  class 

*  John  Quincy  Adams. 

19* 


222  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

such  claims  with  the  brags  of  sharpers,  who  bully  their  victims 
about  their  honor,  while  they  stretch  forth  their  hands  for  the 
gold  they  have  won  with  loaded  dice.  "  Do  you  dare  to  say 
the  dice  are  loaded  ?  Prove  it ;  and  I  will  shoot  you  for 
injuring  my  honor." 

The  Mexican  makes  his  gloss  on  the  page  of  American 
honor ;  *  the  girl  f  in  the  Kentucky  prison  on  that  of  her 
freedom ;  the  delegate  of  Massachusetts,  J  on  that  of  her 
union.  Ye  stars,  whose  image  America  has  placed  upon  her 
banner,  answer  us  !  Are  not  your  unions  of  a  different  sort  ? 
Do  they  not  work  to  other  results  ? 

Yet  we  cannot  lightly  be  discouraged,  or  alarmed,  as  to  the 
destiny  of  our  country.  The  whole  history  of  its  discovery 
and  early  progress  indicates  too  clearly  the  purposes  of 
Heaven  with  regard  to  it.  Could  we  relinquish  the  thought 
that  it  was  destined  for  the  scene  of  a  new  and  illustrious  act 
in  the  great  drama,  the  past  would  be  inexplicable,  no  less 
than  the  future  without  hope. 

Last  week,  which  brought  us  so  many  unpleasant  notices 
of  home  affairs,  brought  also  an  account  of  the  magnificent 
telescope  lately  perfected  by  the  Earl  of  Rosse.  With  means 
of  observation  now  almost  divine,  we  perceive  that  some  of 
the  brightest  stars,  of  which  Sirius  is  one,  have  dark  compan 
ions,  whose  presence  is,  by  earthly  spectators,  only  to  be  de 
tected  from  the  inequalities  they  cause  in  the  motions  of  their 
radiant  companions.  It  was  a  new  and  most  imposing  illus 
tration  how,  in  carrying  out  the  divine  scheme,  of  which  we 
have  as  yet  only  spelled  out  the  few  first  lines,  the  dark  is 
made  to  wait  upon,  and,  in  the  full  result,  harmonize  with,  the 
bright.  The  sense  of  such  pervasive  analogies  should  enlarge 
patience  and  animate  hope. 

*  For  her  treatment  of  a  sister  republic  in  our  late  war  with  Mexico, 
f  Miss  Delia  Webster. 

j  Hon.  Samuel  Hoar,  sent  to  Charleston,  S.  C.,  to  test  in  the  courts  her 
laws,  and  driven  thence  with  his  daughter  by  a  mob. 


NEW  YEAR'S  DAY.  223 

Yet,  if  offences  must  come,  woe  be  to  those  by  whom  they 
come ;  and  that  of  men,  who  sin  against  a  heritage  like  ours, 
is  as  that  of  the  backsliders  among  the  chosen  people  of  the 
elder  day.  We,  too,  have  been  chosen,  and  plain  indications 
been  given,  by  a  wonderful  conjunction  of  auspicious  influ 
ences,  that  the  ark  of  human  hopes  has  been  placed  for  the 
present  in  our  charge.  Woe  be  to  those  who  betray  this 
trust !  On  their  heads  are  to  be  heaped  the  curses  of  unnum 
bered  ages ! 

Can  he  sleep,  who  in  this  past  year  has  wickedly  or  lightly 
committed  acts  calculated  to  injure  the  few  or  many ;  who 
has  poisoned  the  ears  and  the  hearts  he  might  have  rightly 
informed ;  who  has  steeped  in  tears  the  cup  of  thousands ; 
who  has  put  back,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  the  accomplishment 
of  general  good  and  happiness  for  the  sake  of  his  selfish 
aggrandizement  or  selfish  luxury  ;  who  has  sold  to  a  party 
what  was  meant  for  mankind  ?  If  such  sleep,  dreadful  shall 
Jbe  the  waking. 

"  Deliver  us  from  evil."  In  public  or  in  private,  it  is  easy 
to  give  pain  —  hard  to  give  pure  pleasure  ;  easy  to  do  evil  — 
hard  to  do  good.  God  does  his  good  in  the  whole,  despite  of 
bad  men  ;  but  only  from  a  very  pure  mind  will  he  permit 
original  good  to  proceed  in  the  day.  Happy  those  who  can 
feel  that  during  the  past  year,  they  have,  to  the  best  of  their 
knowledge,  refrained  from  evil.  Happy  those  who  determine 
to  proceed  in  this  by  the  light  of  conscience.  It  is  but  a 
spark  ;  yet  from  that  spark  may  be  drawn  fire-light  enough 
for  worlds  and  systems  of  worlds  —  and  that  light  is  ever 
new. 

And  with  this  thought  rises  again  the  memory  of  the  fair 
lines  that  light  has  brought  to  view  in  the  histories  of  some 
men.  If  the  nation  tends  to  wrong,  there  are  yet  present  the 
ten  just  men.  The  hands  and  lips  of  this  great  form  may  be 
impure,  but  pure  blood  flows  yet  within  her  veins  —  the  blood 
of  the  noble  bands  who  first  sought  these  shores  from  the 


224  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

British  isles  and  France,  for  conscience  sake.  Too  many 
have  come  since,  for  bread  alone.  We  cannot  blame  —  we 
must  not  reject  them ;  but  let  us  teach  them,  in  giving  them 
bread,  to  prize  that  salt,  too,  without  which  all  on  earth  must 
lose  its  savor.  Yes  !  let  us  teach  them,  not  rail  at  their  inev 
itable  ignorance  and  unenlightened  action,  but  teach  them  and 
their  children  as  our  own  ;  if  we  do  so,  their  children  and  ours 
may  yet  act  as  one  body  obedient  to  one  soul ;  and  if  we  act 
rightly  now,  that  soul  a  pure  soul. 

And  ye,  sable  bands,  forced  hither  against  your  will,  kept 
down  here  now  by  a  force  hateful  to  nature,  a  will  alien  from 
God  !  It  does  sometimes  seem  as  if  the  avenging  angel  wore 
your  hue,  and  would  place  in  your  hands  the  sword  to  punish 
the  cruel  injustice  of  our  fathers,  the  selfish  perversity  of  the 
sons.  Yet  are  there  no  means  of  atonement  ?  Must  the 
innocent  suffer  with  the  guilty  ?  Teach  us,  O  All-Wise,  the 
clew  out  of  this  labyrinth ;  and  if  we  faithfully  encounter  its 
darkness  and  dread,  and  emerge  into  clear  light,  wilt  thou  not 
bid  us  "  go  and  sin  no  more  "  ? 

Meanwhile,  let  us  proceed  as  we  can,  picking  our  steps 
along  the  slippery  road.  If  we  keep  the  right  direction, 
what  matters  it  that  we  must  pass  through  so  much  mud  ? 
The  promise  is  sure  :  — 

Angels  shall  free  the  feet  from  stain,  to  their  own  hue  of 

snow, 
If,  undismayed,  we  reach  the  hills  where  the   true   olives 

grow. 

The  olive  groves,  which  we  must  seek  in  cold  and  damp, 
Alone  can  yield  us  oil  for  a  perpetual  lamp. 
Then  sound  again  the  golden  horn  with  promise  ever  new ; 
The  princely  deer  will  ne'er  be  caught  by  those  that  slack 

pursue  ; 
Let  the  "  White  Doe  "  of  angel  hopes  be  always  kept  in  view. 


NEW  YEAR'S  DAY.  225 

Yes  !  sound  again  the  horn  —  of  hope  the  golden  horn  ! 
Answer  it,  flutes  and  pipes,  from  valleys  still  and  lorn ; 
Warders,  from  your  high  towers,  with  trumps  of  silver  scorn, 
And  harps  in  maidens'  bowers,  with  strings  from  deep  hearts 

torn,  — 
All  answer  to  the  horn  —  of  hope  the  golden  horn  ! 

There  is  still  hope,  there  is  still  an  America,  while  private 
lives  are  ruled  by  the  Puritan,  by  the  Huguenot  conscien 
tiousness,  and  while  there  are  some  who  can  repudiate,  not 
their  debts,  but  the  supposition  that  they  will  not  strive  to 
pay  their  debts  to  their  age,  and  to  Heaven,  who  gave  them 
a  share  in  its  great  promise. 


ST.  VALENTINE'S   DAY. 

THIS  merry  season  of  light  jokes  and  lighter  love-tokens,  in 
which  Cupid  presents  the  feathered  end  of  the  dart,  as  if  he 
meant  to  tickle  before  he  wounded  the  captive,  has  always 
had  a  great  charm  for  me.  When  but  a  child,  I  saw  Allston's 
picture  of  the  "  Lady  reading  a  Valentine,"  and  the  mild 
womanliness  of  the  picture,  so  remote  from  passion  no  less 
than  vanity,  so  capable  of  tenderness,  so  chastely  timid  in  its 
self-possession,  has  given  a  color  to  the  gayest  thoughts  con 
nected  with  the  day.  From  the  ruff  of  Allston's  Lady,  whose 
clear  starch  is  made  to  express  all  rosebud  thoughts  of  girlish 
retirement,  the  soft  unfledged  hopes  which  never  yet  were 
tempted  from  the  nest,  to  Sam  Weller's  Valentine,  is  indeed 
a  broad  step,  but  one  which  we  can  take  without  material 
change  of  mood. 

But  of  all  the  thoughts  and  pictures  associated  with  the  day, 
none  can  surpass  in  interest  those  furnished  by  the  way  in 
which  we  celebrated  it  last  week. 

The  Bloomingdale  Asylum  for  the  Insane  is  conducted  on 
the  most  wise  and  liberal  plan  known  at  the  present  day.  Its 
superintendent,  Dr.  Earle,  has  had  ample  opportunity  to 
observe  the  best  modes  of  managing  this  class  of  diseases  both 
here  and  in  Europe,  and  he  is  one  able,  by  refined  sympathies 
and  intellectual  discernment,  to  apply  the  best  that  is  known 
and  to  discover  more. 

Under  his  care  the  beautifully  situated  establishment  at 
Bloomingdale  loses  every  sign  of  the  hospital  and  the  prison, 
not  long  since  thought  to  be  inseparable  from  such  a  place. 

(226) 


ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY.  227 

It  is  a  house  of  refuge,  where  those  too  deeply  wounded  or 
disturbed  in  body  or  spirit  to  keep  up  that  semblance  or  de 
gree  of  sanity  which  the  conduct  of  affairs  in  the  world  at 
large  demands,  may  be  soothed  by  gentle  care,  intelligent 
sympathy,  and  a  judicious  attention  to  their  physical  welfare, 
into  health,  or,  at  least,  into  tranquillity. 

Dr.  Earle,  in  addition  to  modes  of  turning  the  attention  from 
causes  of  morbid  irritation,  and  promoting  brighter  and  juster 
thoughts,  which  he  uses  in  common  with  other  institutions,  has 
this  winter  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  to  the  patients.  We 
were  present  at  one  of  these  some  weeks  since.  The  subjects 
touched  upon  were,  often,  of  a  nature  to  demand  as  close  at 
tention  as  an  audience  of  regular  students  (not  college  students, 
but  real  students)  can  be  induced  to  give.  The  large  assem 
bly  present  were  almost  uniformly  silent,  to  appearance  inter 
ested,  and  showed  a  power  of  decorum  and  self-government 
often  wanting  among  those  who  esteem  themselves  in  healthful 
mastery  of  their  morals  and  manners.  We  saw,  with  great 
satisfaction,  generous  thoughts  and  solid  pursuits  offered,  as 
well  as  light  amusements,  for  the  choice  of  the  sick  in  mind. 
For  it  is  our  experience  that  such  sickness  arises  as  often  from 
want  of  concentration  as  any  other  cause.  One  of  the  noblest 
youths  that  ever  trod  this  soil  was  wont  to  say,  "  he  was  never 
tired,  if  he  could  only  see  far  enough."  He  is  now  gone 
where  his  view  may  be  less  bounded ;  but  we,  who  stay  be 
hind,  may  take  the  hint  that  mania,  no  less  than  the  commonest 
forms  of  prejudice,  bespeaks  a  mind  which  does  not  see  far 
enough  to  correct  partial  impressions.  No  doubt,  in  many 
cases,  dissipation  of  thought,  after  attention  is  once  distorted 
into  some  morbid  direction,  may  be  the  first  method  of  cure ; 
but  we  are  glad  to  see  others  provided  for  those  who  are  ready 
for  them. 

St.  Valentine's  Eve  had  been  appointed  for  one  of  the 
dancing  parties  at  the  institution,  and  a  few  friends  from  "  the 
world's  people  "  invited  to  be  present. 


228  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

At  an  early  hour  the  company  assembled  in  the  well-lighted 
hall,  still  gracefully  wreathed  with  its  Christmas  evergreens ; 
the  music  struck  up  and  the  company  entered. 

And  these  are  the  people  who,  half  a  century  ago,  would 
have  been  chained  in  solitary  cells,  screaming  out  their  an 
guish  till  silenced  by  threats  or  blows,  lost,  forsaken,  hopeless, 
a  blight  to  earth,  a  libel  upon  heaven ! 

Now,  they  are  many  of  them  happy,  all  interested.  Even 
those  who  are  troublesome  and  subject  to  violent  excitement 
in  every-day  scenes,  show  here  that  the  power  of  self-control 
is  not  lost,  only  lessened.  Give  them  an  impulse  strong 
enough,  favorable  circumstances,  and  they  will  begin  to  use  it 
again.  They  regulate  their  steps  to  music;  they  restrain 
their  impatient  impulses  from  respect  to  themselves  and  to 
others.  The  Power  which  shall  yet  shape  order  from  all  dis 
order,  and  turn  ashes  to  beauty,  as  violets  spring  up  from 
green  graves,  hath  them  also  in  its  keeping. 

The  party  were  well  dressed,  with  care  and  taste.  The 
dancing  was  better  than  usual,  because  there  was  less  of  affec 
tation  and  ennui.  The  party  was  more  entertaining,  because 
native  traits  came  out  more  clear  from  the  disguises  of  vanity 
and  tact. 

There  was  the  blue-stocking  lady,  a  mature  belle  and  bel- 
esprit.  Her  condescending  graces,  her  rounded  compliments, 
her  girlish,  yet  "  highly  intellectual "  vivacity,  expressed  no 
less  in  her  head-dress  than  her  manner,  were  just  that  touch 
above  the  common  with  which  the  illustrator  of  Dickens  has 
thought  fit  to  heighten  the  charms  of  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter. 

There  was  the  travelled  Englishman,  aufait  to  every  thing 
beneath  the  moon  and  beyond.  With  his  clipped  and  glib 
phrases,  his  bundle  of  conventionalities  carried  so  neatly 
under  his  arm,  and  his  "  My  dear  sir,"  in  the  perfection  of 
cockney  dignity,  what  better  could  the  most  select  dinner 
party  furnish  us  in  the  way  of  distinguished  strangerhood  ? 

There  was   the  hoidenish   young  girl,  and  the  decorous, 


ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY.  229 

elegant  lady  smoothing  down  "  the  wild  little  thing."  There 
was  the  sarcastic  observer  on  the  folly  of  the  rest ;  in  that, 
the  greatest  fool  of  all,  unbeloved  and  unloving.  In  con 
trast  to  this  were  characters  altogether  lovely,  full  of  all  sweet 
affections,  whose  bells,  if  jangled  out  of  tune,  still  retained 
their  true  tone. 

One  of  the  best  things  of  the  evening  was  a  dance  impro 
vised  by  two  elderly  women.  They  asked  the  privilege  of 
the  floor,  and,  a  suitable  measure  being  played,  performed  this 
dance  in  a  style  lively,  characteristic,  yet  moderate  enough. 
It  was  true  dancing,  like  peasant  dancing. 

An  old  man  sang  comic  songs  in  the  style  of  various  nations 
and  characters,  with  a  dramatic  expression  that  would  have 
commanded  applause  "  on  any  stage." 

And  all  was  done  decently  and  in  order,  each  biding  his 
time.  Slight  symptoms  of  impatience  here  and  there  were 
easily  soothed  by  the  approach  of  this,  truly  "  good  physi 
cian,"  the  touch  of  whose  hand  seemed  to  possess  a  talismanic 
power  to  soothe.  We  doubt  not  that  all  went  to  their  beds 
exhilarated,  free  from  irritation,  and  more  attuned  to  concord 
than  before.  Good  bishop  Valentine!  thy  feast  was  well 
kept,  and  not  without  the  usual  jokes  and  flings  at  old  bach 
elors,  the  exchange  of  sugar-plums,  mottoes,  and  repartees. 

This  is  the  second  festival  I  have  kept  with  those  whom 
society  has  placed,  not  outside  her  pale,  indeed,  but  outside 
the  hearing  of  her  benison.  Christmas  I  passed  in  a  prison  ! 
There,  too,  I  saw  marks  of  the  miraculous  power  of  love, 
when  guided  by  a  pure  faith  in  the  goodness  of  its  source,  and 
intelligence  as  to  the  design  of  the  creative  intelligence.  I 
saw  enough  of  its  power,  impeded  as  it  was  by  the  ignorance 
of  those  who,  eighteen  hundred  years  after  the  coming  of 
Christ,  still  believe  more  in  fear  and  force  :  I  saw  enough,  I 
say,  of  this  power  to  convince  me,  if  I  needed  conviction,  that 
love  is  indeed  omnipotent,  as  He  said  it  was. 

A  companion,  of  that  delicate  nature  by  which  a  scar  is  felt 
20 


230  LIFE   WITHOUT    AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

as  a  wound,  was  saddened  by  the  thought  how  very  little  our 
partialities,  undue  emotions,  and  manias  need  to  be  exagger 
ated  to  entitle  us  to  rank  among  madmen.  I  cannot  view  it 
so.  Rather  let  the  sense  that,  with  all  our  faults  and  follies, 
there  is  still  a  sound  spot,  a  presentiment  of  eventual  health 
in  the  inmost  nature,  embolden  us  to  hope,  to  know  it  is  the 
same  with  all.  A  great  thinker  has  spoken  of  the  Greek,  in 
highest  praise,  as  "  a  self-renovating  character."  But  we  are 
all  Greeks,  if  we  will  but  think  so.  For  the  mentally  or 
morally  insane,  there  is  no  irreparable  ill  if  the  principle  of 
life  can  but  be  aroused.  And  it  can  never  be  finally  be 
numbed,  except  by  our  own  will. 

One  of  the  famous  pictures  at  Munich  is  of  a  madhouse. 
The  painter  has  represented  the  moral  obliquities  of  society 
exaggerated  into  madness ;  that  is  to  say,  self-indulgence  has, 
in  each  instance,  destroyed  the  power  to  forbear  the  ill  or  to 
discern  the  good.  A  celebrated  writer  has  added  a  little 
book,  to  be  used  while  looking  at  the  picture,  and  drawn  in 
ferences  of  universal  interest. 

Such  would  we  draw ;  such  as  this  !  Let  no  one  dare  to 
call  another  mad  who  is  not  himself  willing  to  rank  in  the 
same  class  for  every  perversion  and  fault  of  judgment.  Let 
no  one  dare  aid  in  punishing  another  as  criminal  who  is  not 
willing  to  suffer  the  penalty  due  to  his  own  offences. 

Yet,  while  owning  that  we  are  all  mad,  all  criminal,  let  us 
not  despair,  but  rather  believe  that  the  Ruler  of  all  never 
could  permit  such  wide-spread  ill  but  to  good  ends.  It  is 
permitted  to  give  us  a  field  to  redeem  it  — 

"  to  transmute,  bereave 
^  Of  an  ill  influence,  and  a  good  receive." 

It  flows  inevitably  from  the  emancipation  of  our  wills,  the 
development  of  individuality  in  us.  These  aims  accomplished, 
all  shall  yet  be  well ;  and  it  is  ours  to  learn  how  that  good 
time  may  be  hastened. 


ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY.  231 

We  know  no  sign  of  the  times  more  encouraging  than  the 
increasing  nobleness  and  wisdom  of  view  as  to  the  govern 
ment  of  asylums  for  the  insane  and  of  prisons.  Whatever  is 
learned  as  to  these  forms  of  society  is  learned  for  all.  There 
is  nothing  that  can  be  said  of  such  government  that  must  not 
be  said,  also,  of  the  government  of  families,  schools,  and  states. 
But  we  have  much  to  say  on  this  subject,  and  shall  revert  to 
it  again,  and  often,  though,  perhaps,  not  with  so  pleasing  a 
theme  as  this  of  St.  Valentine's  Eve. 


FOURTH  OF  JULY. 

THE  bells  ring;  the  cannon  rouse  the  echoes  along  the 
river  shore ;  the  boys  sally  forth  with  shouts  and  little  flags, 
and  crackers  enough  to  frighten  all  the  people  they  meet  from 
sunrise  to  sunset.  The  orator  is  conning  for  the  last  time  the 
speech  in  which  he  has  vainly  attempted  to  season  with  some 
new  spice  the  yearly  panegyric  upon  our  country  ;  its  happi 
ness  and  glory ;  the  audience  is  putting  on  its  best  bib  and 
tucker,  and  its  blandest  expression  to  listen. 

And  yet,  no  heart,  we  think,  can  beat  to-day  with  one  pulse 
of  genuine,  noble  joy.  Those  who  have  obtained  their  selfish 
objects  will  not  take  especial  pleasure  in  thinking  of  them  to 
day,  while  to  unbiassed  minds  must  come  sad  thoughts  of 
national  honor  soiled  in  the  eyes  of  other  nations,  of  a  great 
inheritance  risked,  if  not  forfeited. 

Much  has  been  achieved  in  this  country  since  the  Dec 
laration  of  Independence.  America  is  rich  and  strong ;  she 
has  shown  great  talent  and  energy;  vast  prospects  of  ag 
grandizement  open  before  her.  But  the  noble  sentiment 
which  she  expressed  in  her  early  youth  is  tarnished ;  she  has 
shown  that  righteousness  is  not  her  chief  desire,  and  her 
name  is  no  longer  a  watchword  for  the  highest  hopes  to  the 
rest  of  the  world.  She  knows  this,  but  takes  it  very  easily  ; 
she  feels  that  she  is  growing  richer  and  more  powerful,  and 
that  seems  to  suffice  her. 

These  facts  are  deeply  saddening  to  those  who  can  pro 
nounce  the  words  "  my  country  "  with  pride  and  peace  only 
so  far  as  steadfast  virtues,  generous  impulses,  find  their  home 
in  that  country.  They  cannot  be  satisfied  with  superficial 

(232) 


FOURTH  OP  JULY.  233 

benefits,  with  luxuries  and  the  means  of  obtaining  knowledge 
which  are  multiplied  for  them.  They  could  rejoice  in  full 
hands  and  a  busy  brain,  if  the  soul  were  expanding  and  the 
heart  pure ;  but,  the  higher  conditions  being  violated,  what  is 
done  cannot  be  done  for  good. 

Such  thoughts  fill  patriot  minds  as  the  cannon-peal  bursts 
upon  the  ear.  This  year,  which  declares  that  the  people  at 
large  consent  to  cherish  and  extend  slavery  as  one  of  our 
"  domestic  institutions,"  takes  from  the  patriot  his  home.  This 
year,  which  attests  their  insatiate  love  of  wealth  and  power, 
quenches  the  flame  upon  the  altar. 

Yet  there  remains  that  good  part  which  cannot  be  taken 
away.  If  nations  go  astray,  the  narrow  path  may  always  be 
found  and  followed  by  the  individual  man.  It  is  hard,  hard 
indeed,  when  politics  and  trade  are  mixed  up  with  evils  so 
mighty  that  he  scarcely  dares  touch  them  for  fear  of  being 
defiled.  He  finds  his  activity  checked  in  great  natural  out 
lets  by  the  scruples  of  conscience.  He  cannot  enjoy  the  free 
use  of  his  limbs,  glowing  upon  a  favorable  tide ;  but  strug 
gling,  panting,  must  fix  his  eyes  upon  his  aim,  and  fight  against 
the  current  to  reach  it.  It  is  not  easy,  it  is  very  hard  just 
now,  to  realize  the  blessings  of  independence. 

For  what  is  independence  if  it  do  not  lead  to  freedom  ?  — 
freedom  from  fraud  and  meanness,  from  selfishness,  from 
public  opinion  so  far  as  it  does  not  agree  with  the  still,  small 
voice  of  one's  better  self? 

Yet  there  remains  a  great  and  worthy  part  to  play.  This 
country  presents  great  temptations  to  ill,  but  also  great  in 
ducements  to  good.  Her  health  and  strength  are  so  remarka 
ble,  her  youth  so  full  of  life,  that  disease  cannot  yet  have 
taken  deep  hold  of  her.  It  has  bewildered  her  brain,  made 
her  steps  totter,  fevered,  but  not  yet  tainted,  her  blood.  Things 
are  still  in  that  state  when  ten  just  men  may  save  the  city. 
A  few  men  are  wanted,  able  to  think  and  act  upon  principles 
of  an  eternal  value.  The  safety  of  the  country  must  lie  in  a 
20* 


234  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

few  such  men ;  men  who  have  achieved  the  genuine  inde 
pendence,  independence  of  wrong,  of  violence,  of  falsehood. 

We  want  individuals  to  whom  all  eyes  may  turn  as  exam 
ples  of  the  practicability  of  virtue.  We  want  shining  exam 
ples.  AVe  want  deeply-rooted  characters,  who  cannot  be 
moved  by  flattery,  by  fear,  even  by  hope,  for  they  work  in 
faith.  The  opportunity  for  such  men  is  great ;  they  will  not 
be  burned  at  the  stake  in  their  prime  for  bearing  witness  to 
the  truth,  yet  they  will  be  tested  most  severely  in  their  ad 
herence  to  it.  There  is  nothing  to  hinder  them  from  learning 
what  is  true  and  best ;  no  physical  tortures  will  be  inflicted  on 
them  for  expressing  it.  Let  men  feel  that  in  private  lives, 
more  than  in  public  measures,  must  the  salvation  of  the 
country  lie.  If  that  country  has  so  widely  veered  from  the 
course  she  prescribed  to  herself,  and  that  the  hope  of  the 
world  prescribed  to  her,  it  must  be  because  she  had  not  men 
ripened  and  confirmed  for  better  things.  They  leaned  too 
carelessly  on  one  another ;  they  had  not  deepened  and  puri 
fied  the  private  lives  from  which  the  public  vitality  must 
spring,  as  the  verdure  of  the  plain  from  the  fountains  of  the 
hills. 

What  a  vast  influence  is  given  by  sincerity  alone.  The 
bier  of  General  Jackson  has  lately  passed,  upbearing  a  golden 
urn.  The  men  who  placed  it  there  lament  his  departure,  and 
esteem  the  measures  which  have  led  this  country  to  her  pres 
ent  position  wise  and  good.  The  other  side  esteem  them  un 
wise,  unjust,  and  disastrous  in  their  consequences.  But  both 
respect  him  thus  far,  that  his  conduct  was  boldly  sincere.  The 
sage  of  Quincy !  Men  differ  in  their  estimate  of  his  abilities. 
None,  probably,  esteem  his  mind  as  one  of  the  first  magnitude. 
But  both  sides,  all  men,  are  influenced  by  the  bold  integrity 
of  his  character.  Mr.  Calhoun  speaks  straight  out  what  he 
thinks.  So  far  as  this  straightforwardness  goes,  he  confers 
the  benefits  of  virtue.  If  a  character  be  uncorrrpted,  what 
ever  bias  it  takes,  it  thus  far  is  good  and  does  good.  It  may 


FOUETH   OF   JULY.  235 

help   others   to   a   higher,    wiser,   larger  independence  than 
its  own. 

We  know  not  where  to  look  for  an  example  of  all  or  many 
of  the  virtues  we  would  seek  from  the  man  who  is  to  begin 
the  new  dynasty  that  is  needed  of  fathers  of  the  country. 
The  country  needs  to  be  born  again ;  she  is  polluted  with  the 
lust  of  power,  the  lust  of  gain.  She  needs  fathers  good 
enough  to  be  godfathers  —  men  who  will  stand  sponsors  at 
the  baptism  with  all  they  possess,  with  all  the  goodness  they 
can  cherish,  and  all  the  wisdom  they  can  win,  to  lead  this 
child  the  way  she  should  go,  and  never  one  step  in  another. 
Are  there  not  in  schools  and  colleges  the  boys  who  will  be 
come  such  men  ?  Are  there  not  those  on  the  threshold  of 
manhood  who  have  not  yet  chosen  the  broad  way  into  which 
the  multitude  rushes,  led  by  the  banner  on  which,  strange  to 
say,  the  royal  Eagle  is  blazoned,  together  with  the  word  Ex 
pediency  ?  Let  them  decline  that  road,  and  take  the  narrow, 
thorny  path  where  Integrity  leads,  though  with  no  prouder  em 
blem  than  the  Dove.  They  may  there  find  the  needed  remedy, 
which,  like  the  white  root,  detected  by  the  patient  and  re 
solved  Odysseus,  shall  have  power  to  restore  the  herd  of  men, 
disguised  by  the  enchantress  to  whom  they  had  willingly 
yielded  in  the  forms  of  brutes,  to  the  stature  and  beauty 
of  men. 


FIRST  OF  AUGUST. 

AMONG-  the  holidays  of  the  year,  some  portion  of  our 
people  borrow  one  from  another  land.  They  borrow  what 
they  fain  would  own,  since  their  doing  so  would  increase, 
not  lessen,  the  joy  and  prosperity  of  the  present  owner. 
It  is  a  holiday  not  to  be  celebrated,  as  others  are,  with 
boast,  and  shout,  and  gay  procession,  but  solemnly,  yet 
hopefully ;  in  prayer  and  humiliation  for  much  ill  now 
existing ;  in  faith  that  the  God  of  good  will  not  permit 
such  ill  to  exist  always ;  in  aspiration  to  become  his 
instruments  for  removal. 

We  borrow  this  holiday  from  England.  "We  know  not  that 
she  could  lend  us  another  such.  Her  career  has  been  one  of 
selfish  aggrandizement.  To  carry  her  flag  wherever  the 
waters  flow ;  to  leave  a  strong  mark  of  her  footprint  on  every 
shore,  that  she  might  return  and  claim  its  spoils ;  to  main 
tain  in  every  way  her  own  advantage,  —  is  and  has  been  her 
object,  as  much  as  that  of  any  nation  upon  earth.  The  plun 
dered  Hindoo,  the  wronged  Irish,  —  for  ourselves  we  must 
add  the  outraged  Chinese,  (for  we  look  on  all  that  has  been 
written  about  the  right  of  that  war  as  mere  sophistry,)  —  no 
less  than  Napoleon,  walking  up  and  down,  in  his  "tarred 
great-coat,"  in  the  unwholesome  lodge  at  St.  Helena,  —  all 
can  tell  whether  she  be  righteous  or  generous  in  her  con 
quests.  Nay,  let  myriads  of  her  own  children  say  whether 
she  will  abstain  from  sacrificing,  mercilessly,  human  freedom, 
happiness,  and  the  education  of  immortal  souls,  for  the  sake 
of  gains  of  money !  We  speak  of  Napoleon,  for  we  must 

(236) 


FIRST   OF   AUGUST.  237 

ever  despise,  with  most  profound  contempt,  the  use  she  made 
of  her  power  on  that  occasion.  She  had  been  the  chief  means 
of  liberating  Europe  from  his  tyranny,  and,  though  it  was  for 
her  own  sake,  we  must  commend  and  admire  her  conduct  and 
resolution  thus  far.  But  the  unhandsome,  base  treatment  of 
her  captive,  has  never  been  enough  contemned.  Any  private 
gentleman,  in  chaining  up  the  foe  that  had  put  himself  in  his 
power,  would  at  least  have  given  him  lodging,  food,  and 
clothes  to  his  liking,  and  a  civil  turnkey  —  and  a  great  na 
tion  could  fail  in  this  !  O,  it  was  shameful,  if  only  for  the 
vulgarity  of  feeling  evinced !  All  this  we  say,  because  we 
are  sometimes  impatient  of  England's  brag  on  the  subject 
of  slavery.  Freedom  !  Because  she  has  done  one  good 
act,  is  she  entitled  to  the  angelic  privilege  of  being  the 
champion  of  freedom  ? 

And  yet  it  is  true  that  once  she  nobly  awoke  to  a  sense  of 
what  was  right  and  wise.  It  is  true  that  she  also  acted  out 
that  sense  —  acted  fully,  decidedly.  She  was  willing  to 
make  sacrifices,  even  of  the  loved  money.  She  has  not  let 
go  the  truth  she  then  laid  to  heart,  and  continues  the  resolute 
foe  of  man's  traffic  in  men.  We  must  bend  low  to  her  as  we 
borrow  this  holiday  —  the  anniversary  of  the  emancipation 
of  slaves  in  the  West  Indies.  We  do  not  feel  that  the  extent 
of  her  practice  justifies  the  extent  of  her  preaching;  yet  we 
must  feel  her  to  be,  in  this  matter,"  an  elder  sister,  entitled  to 
cry  shame  to  us.  And  if  her  feelings  be  those  of  a  sister 
indeed,  how  must  she  mourn  to  see  her  next  of  kin  pushing 
back,  as  far  as  in  her  lies,  the  advance  of  this  good  cause, 
binding  those  whom  the  old  world  had  awakened  from  its  sins 
enough  to  loose  !  But  courage,  sister  !  All  is  not  yet  lost ! 
There  is  here  a  faithful  band,  determined  to  expiate  the 
crimes  that  have  been  committed  in  the  name  of  liberty. 
On  this  day  they  meet  and  vow  themselves  to  the  service ; 
and,  as  they  look  in  one  another's  glowing  eyes,  they  read 


238  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

there  assurance  that  the  end  is  not  yet,  and  that  they,  forced 
as  they  are 

"  To  keep  in  company  with  Pain, 
And  Fear,  and  Falsehood,  miserable  train," 

"  Turn  that  necessity  to  glorious  gain," 
"  Transmute  them  and  subdue." 

Indeed,  we  do  not  see  that  they  "  bate  a  jot  of  heart  or 
hope,"  and  it  is  because  they  feel  that  the  power  of  the  Great 
Spirit,  and  its  peculiar  workings  in  the  spirit  of  this  age,  are 
with  them.  There  is  action  and  reaction  all  the  time ;  and 
though  the  main  current  is  obvious,  there  are  many  little 
eddies  and  counter-currents.  Mrs.  Norton  writes  a  poem  on 
the  sufferings  of  the  poor,  and  in  it  she,  as  episode,  tunefully 
laments  the  sufferings  of  the  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias  for 
the  death  of  a  beloved  daughter.  And  it  was  a  deep  grief; 
yet  it  did  not  soften  his  heart,  or  make  it  feel  for  man.  The 
first  signs  of  his  recovered  spirits  are  in  new  efforts  to  crush 
out  the  heart  of  Poland,  and  to  make  the  Jews  lay  aside  the 
hereditary  marks  of  their  national  existence — to  them  a  sacri 
fice  far  worse  than  death.  But  then,  —  Count  Apraxin  is 
burned  alive  by  his  infuriate  serfs,  and  the  life  of  a  serf  is 
far  more  dog-like,  or  rather  machine-like,  than  that  of  our 
slaves.  Still  the  serf  can  rise  in  vengeance  —  can  admon 
ish  the  autocrat  that  humanity  may  yet  turn  again  and 
rend  him. 

So  with  us.  The  most  shameful  deed  has  been  done  that 
ever  disgraced  a  nation,  because  the  most  contrary  to  con 
sciousness  of  right.  Other  nations  have  done  wickedly,  but 
we  have  surpassed  them  all  in  trampling  under  foot  the  prin 
ciples  that  had  been  assumed  as  the  basis  of  our  national  ex 
istence,  and  shown  a  willingness  to  forfeit  our  honor  in  the 
face  of  the  world. 

The  following  stanzas,  written  by  a  friend  some  time  since, 


FIRST   OP   AUGUST.  239 

on  the  fourth  of  July,  exhibit  these  contrasts  so  forcibly,  that 
we  cannot  do  better  than  insert  them  here :  — 

Loud  peal  of  bells  and  beat  of  drums 

Salute  approaching  dawn  ; 
And  the  deep  cannon's  fearful  bursts 

Announce  a  nation's  morn. 

Imposing  ranks  of  freemen  stand 

And  claim  their  proud  birthright; 
Impostors,  rather  !  thus  to  brand 

A  name  they  hold  so  bright. 

Let  the  day  see  the  pageant  show; 

Float,  banners,  to  the  breeze  ! 
Shout  Liberty's  great  name  throughout 

Columbia's  lands  and  seas ! 

Give  open  sunlight  to  the  free ; 

But  for  Truth's  equal  sake, 
When  night  sinks  down  upon  the  land, 

Proclaim  dead  Freedom's  wake  ! 

Beat,  muffled  drums !     Toll,  funeral  bell ! 

Nail  every  flag  half-mast ; 
For  though  we  fought  the  battle  well, 

We're  traitors  at  the  last. 

Let  the  whole  nation  join  in  one 

Procession  to  appear ; 
We  and  our  sons  lead  on  the  front, 

Our  slaves  bring  up  the  rear. 

America  is  rocked  within 

Thy  cradle,  Liberty, 
By  Africa's  poor,  palsied  hand  — 

Strange  inconsistency ! 


240  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

We've  dug  one  grave  as  deep  as  Death, 

For  Tyranny's  black  sin  ; 
And  dug  another  at  its  side 

To  thrust  our  brother  in. 

We  challenge  all  the  world  aloud,  — 

"  Lo,  Tyranny's  deep  grave  ! " 
And  all  the  world  points  back  and  cries, 

"  Thou  fool !     Behold  thy  slave  ! " 

Yes,  rally,  brave  America, 

Thy  noble  hearts  and  free 
Around  the  Eagle,  as  he  soars 

Upward  in  majesty. 

One  half  thy  emblem  is  the  bird, 

Out-facing  thus  the  day  ; 
But  wouldst  thou  make  him  wholly  thine,  — 

Give  him,  a  helpless  prey  ! 

This  should  be  sung  in  Charleston  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  when  the  drums  are  heard  proclaiming  "  dead  Free 
dom's  wake,"  as  they  summon  to  their  homes,  or  to  the  cus 
tody  of  the  police,  every  human  being  with  a  black  skin  who 
is  found  walking  without  a  pass  from  a  white.  Or  it  might 
have  been  sung  to  advantage  the  night  after  Charleston  had 
shown  her  independence  and  care  of  domestic  institutions  by 
expulsion  of  the  venerable  envoy  of  Massachusetts  !  Its 
expression  would  seem  even  more  forcible  than  now,  when 
sung  so  near  the  facts,  when  the  eagle  soars  so  close  above 
his  prey. 

How  deep  the  shadow  !  yet  cleft  by  light.  There  is  a 
counter-current  that  sets  towards  the  deep.  We  are  inclined 
to  weigh  as  of  almost  equal  weight  with  all  we  have  had  to 
trouble  us  as  to  the  prolongation  of  slavery,  the  hopes  that 
may  be  gathered  from  the  course  of  such  a  man  as  Cassius 


FIRST  OF  AUGUST.  241 

M.  Clay,  —  a  man  open  to  none  of  the  accusations  brought  to 
diminish  the  influence  of  abolitionists  in  general,  for  he  has 
eaten  the  bread  wrought  from  slavery,  and  has  shared  the 
education  that  excuses  the  blindness  of  the  slaveholder.  He 
speaks  as  one  having  authority ;  no  one  can  deny  that  he 
knows  where  he  is.  In  the  prime  of  manhood,  of  talent,  and 
the  energy  of  a  fine  enthusiasm,  he  comes  forward  with  deed 
and  word  to  do  his  devoir  in  this  cause,  never  to  leave  the 
field  till  he  can  take  with  him  the  wronged  wretches  rescued 
by  his  devotion. 

Now  he  has  made  this  last  sacrifice  of  the  prejudices  of 
"  southern  chivalry,"  more  persons  than  ever  will  be  ready  to 
join  the  herald's  cry,  "  God  speed  the  right ! "  And  we  cannot 
but  believe  his  noble  example  will  be  followed  by  many  young 
men  in  the  slaveholding  ranks,  brothers  in  a  new,  sacred  band, 
vowed  to  the  duty,  not  merely  of  defending,  but  far  more 
sacred,  of  purifying  their  homes. 

The  event  of  which  this  day  is  the  anniversary,  affords  a 
sufficient  guarantee  of  the  safety  and  practicability  of  strong 
measures  for  this  purification.  Various  accounts  are  given  to 
the  public,  of  the  state  of  the  British  West  Indies,  and  the 
foes  of  emancipation  are  of  course  constantly  on  the  alert  to 
detect  any  unfavorable  result  which  may  aid  them  in  opposing 
the  good  work  elsewhere.  But  through  all  statements  these 
facts  shine  clear  as  the  sun  at  noonday,  that  the  measure  was 
there  carried  into  effect  with  an  ease  and  success,  and  has 
shown  in  the  African  race  a  degree  of  goodness,  docility,  ca 
pacity  for  industry  and  self-culture  entirely  beyond  or  opposed 
to  the  predictions  which  darkened  so  many  minds  with  fears. 
Those  fears  can  never  again  be  entertained  or  uttered  with 
the  same  excuse.  One  great  example  of  the  safety  of  doing 
right  exists ;  true,  there  is  but  one  of  the  sort,  but  volumes 
may  be  preached  from  such  a  text. 

We,  however,  preach  not ;  there  are  too  many  preachers 
already  in  the  field,  abler,  more  deeply  devoted  to  the  cause. 
21 


242  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Endless  are  the  sermons  of  these  modern  crusaders,  these 
ardent  "  sons  of  thunder,"  who  have  pledged  themselves  never 
to  stop  or  falter  till  this  one  black  spot  be  purged  away  from 
the  land  which  gave  them  birth.  They  cry  aloud  and  spare 
not ;  they  spare  not  others,  but  then,  neither  do  they  spare  them 
selves  ;  and  such  are  ever  the  harbingers  of  a  new  advent  of 
the  Holy  Spirit.  Our  venerated  friend,  Dr.  Channing,  sainted  in 
more  memories  than  any  man  who  has  left  us  in  this  nineteenth 
century,  uttered  the  last  of  his  tones  of  soft,  solemn,  convin 
cing,  persuasive  eloquence,  on  this  day  and  this  occasion. 
The  hills  of  Lenox  laughed  and  were  glad  as  they  heard  him 
who  showed  in  that  last  address  (an  address  not  only  to  the 
men  of  Lenox,  but  to  all  men,  for  he  was  in  the  highest  sense 
the  friend  of  man)  the  unsullied  purity  of  infancy,  the  indig 
nation  of  youth  at  vice  and  wrong,  informed  and  tempered 
by  the  mild  wisdom  of  age.  It  is  a  beautiful  fact  that  this 
should  have  been  the  last  public  occasion  of  his  life. 

Last  year  a  noble  address  was  delivered  by  R.  W.  Emer 
son,  in  which  he  broadly  showed  the  juste  milieu  views  upon 
this  subject  in  the  holy  light  of  a  high  ideal  day.  The  truest 
man  grew  more  true  as  he  listened ;  for  the  speech,  though  it 
had  the  force  of  fact  and  the  lustre  of  thought,  was  chiefly 
remarkable  as  sharing  the  penetrating  quality  of  the  "  still 
small  voice,"  most  often  heard  when  no  man  speaks.  Now  it 
spoke  through  a  man ;  and  no  personalities,  or  prejudices,  or 
passions  could  be  perceived  to  veil  or  disturb  its  silver  sound. 

These  speeches  are  on  record ;  little  can  be  said  that  is  not 
contained  in  them.  But  we  can  add  evermore  our  aspirations 
for  thee,  O  our  country !  that  thou  mayst  not  long  need  to 
borrow  a  holy  day ;  not  long  have  all  thy  festivals  blackened 
by  falsehood,  tyranny,  and  a  crime  for  which  neither  man  be 
low  nor  God  above  can  much  longer  pardon  thee.  For  igno 
rance  may  excuse  error ;  but  thine  —  it  is  vain  to  deny  it  —  is 
conscious  wrong,  and  vows  thee  to  the  Mammon  whose  wages 
are  endless  remorse  or  final  death. 


THANKSGIVING. 

"  Canst  thou  give  thanks  for  aught  that  has  been  given 
Except  by  making  earth  more  worthy  heaven  ? 
Just  stewardship  the  Master  hoped  from  thee ; 
Harvests  from  time  to  bless  eternity." 

THANKSGIVING  is  peculiarly  the  festival  day  of  New  Eng 
land.  Elsewhere,  other  celebrations  rival  its  attractions,  but 
in  that  region  where  the  Puritans  first  returned  thanks  that 
some  among  them  had  been  sustained  by  a  great  hope  and 
earnest  resolve  amid  .the  perils  of  the  ocean,  wild  beasts,  and 
famine,  the  old  spirit  which  hallowed  the  day  still  lingers,  and 
forbids  that  it  should  be  entirely  devoted  to  play  and  plum- 
pudding. 

And  yet,  as  there  is  always  this  tendency ;  as  the  twelfth- 
night  cake  is  baked  by  many  a  hostess  who  would  be  puzzled 
if  you  asked  her,  "  Twelfth  night  after  or  before  what  ?  "  and 
the  Christmas  cake  by  many  who  know  no  other  Christmas 
service,  so  it  requires  very  serious  assertion  and  proof  from 
the  minister  to  convince  his  parishioners  that  the  turkey  and 
plum-pudding,  which  are  presently  to  occupy  his  place  in  their 
attention,  should  not  be  the  chief  objects  of  the  day. 

And  in  other  regions,  where  the  occasion  is  observed,  it  is 
still  more  as  one  for  a  meeting  of  families  and  friends  to  the 
enjoyment  of  a  good  dinner,  than  for  any  higher  purpose. 

This,  indeed,  is  one  which  we  want  not  to  depreciate.  If 
this  manner  of  keeping  the  day  be  likely  to  persuade  the 
juniors  of  the  party  that  the  celebrated  Jack  Homer  is  the 
prime  model  for  brave  boys,  and  that  grandparents  are 
chiefly  to  be  respected  as  the  givers  of  grand  feasts  yet  a 

(243) 


244  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

meeting  in  the  spirit  of  kindness,  however  dull  and  blind,  is 
not  wholly  without  use  in  healing  differences  and  promoting 
good  intentions.  The  instinct  of  family  love,  intended  by 
Heaven  to  make  those  of  one  blood  the  various  and  harmo 
nious  organs  of  one  mind,  is  never  wholly  without  good  influ 
ence.  Family  love,  I  say,  for  family  pride  is  never  without 
bad  influence,  and  it  too  often  takes  the  place  of  its  mild  and 
healthy  sister. 

Yet  where  society  is  at  all  simple,  it  is  cheering  to  see  the 
family  circle  thus  assembled,  if  only  because  its  patriarchal 
form  is  in  itself  so  excellent.  The  presence  of  the  children 
animates  the  old  people,  while  the  respect  and  attention  they 
demand  refine  the  gayety  of  the  young.  Yes,  it  is  cheering 
to  see,  in  some  large  room,  the  elders  talking  near  the  bright 
fire,  while  the  cousins  of  all  ages  are  amusing  themselves  in 
knots.  Here  is  almost  all  the  good,  and  very  little  of  the  ill, 
that  can  be  found  in  society,  got  together  merely  for  amuse 
ment. 

Yet  how  much  nobler,  more  exhilarating,  and  purer  would 
be  the  atmosphere  of  that  circle  if  the  design  of  its  pious 
founders  were  remembered  by  those  who  partake  this  festi 
val  !  if  they  dared  not  attend  the  public  jubilee  till  private 
retrospect  of  the  past  year  had  been  taken  in  the  spirit  of  the 
old  rhyme,  which  we  all  bear  in  mind  if  not  in  heart,  — 

"  What  hast  thou  done  that's  worth  the  doing, 
And  what  pursued  that's  worth  pursuing  ? 
What  sought  thou  knew'st  that  thou  shouldst  shun, 
What  done  thou  shouldst  have  left  undone  ?  " 

A  crusade  needs  also  to  be  made  this  day  into  the  wild  places  of 
each  heart,  taking  for  its  device,  "  Lord,  cleanse  thou  me  from 
secret  faults ;  keep  back  thy  servant  also  from  presumptuous 
sins."  Would  not  that  circle  be  happy  as  if  music,  from  invisi 
ble  agents,  floated  through  it  if  each  member  of  it  considered 
every  other  member  as  a  bequest  from  heaven ;  if  he  sup- 


THANKSGIVING.  245 

posed  that  the  appointed  nearness  in  blood  or  lot  was  a  sign 
to  him  that  he  must  exercise  his  gifts  of  every  kind  as  given 
peculiarly  in  their  behalf;  that  if  richer  in 'temper,  in  talents, 
in  knowledge,  or  in  worldly  goods,  here  was  the  innermost 
circle  of  his  poor ;  that  he  must  clothe  these  naked,  whether 
in  body  or  mind,  soothing  the  perverse,  casting  light  into  the 
narrow  chamber,  or,  most  welcome  task  of  all !  extending  a 
hand  at  the  right  moment  to  one  uncertain  of  his  way  ?  It  is 
this  spirit  that  makes  the  old  man  to  be  revered  as  a  Nestor, 
rather  than  put  aside  like  a  worn-out  garment.  It  is  such  a 
spirit  that  sometimes  has  given  to  the  young  child  a  ministry 
as  of  a  parent  in  the  house. 

But,  if  charity  begin  at  home,  it  must  not  end  there ;  and, 
while  purifying  the  innermost  circle,  let  us  not  forget  that  it 
depends  upon  the  great  circle,  and  that  again  on  it ;  that  no 
home  can  be  healthful  in  which  are  not  cherished  seeds  of 
good  for  the  world  at  large.  Thy  child,  thy  brother,  are  given 
to  thee  only  as  an  example  of  what  is  due  from  thee  to  all 
men.  It  is  true  that,  if  you,  in  anger,  call  your  brother  fool, 
no  deeds  of  so-called  philanthropy  shall  save  you  from  the 
punishment ;  for  your  philanthropy  must  be  from  the  love  of 
excitement,  not  the  love  of  man,  or  of  goodness.  But  then 
you  must  visit  the  Gentiles  also,  and  take  time  for  knowing 
what  aid  the  woman  of  Samaria  may  need. 

A  noble  Catholic  writer,  in  the  true  sense  as  well  as  by 
name  a  Catholic,  describes  a  tailor  as  giving  a  dinner  on  an 
occasion  which  had  brought  honor  to  his  house,  which,  though 
a  humble,  was  not  a  poor  house.  In  his  glee,  the  tailor  was 
boasting  a  little  of  the  favors  and  blessings  of  his  lot,  when 
suddenly  a  thought  stung  him.  He  stopped,  and  cutting  away 
half  the  fowl  that  lay  before  him,  sent  it  in  a  dish  with  the 
best  knives,  bread,  and  napkin,  and  a  brotherly  message  that 
was  better  still,  to  a  widow  near,  who  must,  he  knew,  be 
sittnhg  in  sadness  and  poverty  among  her  children.  His  little 
daughter  was  the  messenger.  If  parents  followed  up  the 
21* 


246  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

indulgences  heaped  upon  their  children  at  Thanksgiving  din 
ners  with  similar  messages,  there  would  not  be  danger  that 
children  should  think  enjoyment  of  sensual  pleasures  the  only- 
occasion  that  demands  Thanksgiving. 

And  suppose,  while  the  children  were  absent  on  their 
errands  of  justice,  as  they  could  not  fail  to  think  them,  if  they 
compared  the  hovels  they  must  visit  with  their  own  comfort 
able  homes,  their  elders,  touched  by  a  sense  of  right,  should 
be  led  from  discussion  of  the  rivalries  of  trade  or  fashion  to 
inquiry  whether  they  could  not  impart  of  all  that  was  theirs, 
not  merely  one  poor  dinner  once  a  year,  but  all  their  mental 
and  material  wealth  for  the  benefit  of  all  men.  If  they  do  not 
sell  it  all  at  once,  as  the  rich  young  man  was  bid  to  do  as  a 
test  of  his  sincerity,  they  may  find  some  way  in  which  it  could 
be  invested  so  as  to  show  enough  obedience  to  the  law  and 
the  prophets  to  love  our  neighbor  as  ourselves. 

And  he  who  once  gives  himself  to  such  thoughts  will  find 
it  is  not  merely  moral  gain  for  which  he  shall  return  thanks 
another  year  with  the  return  of  this  day.  In  the  present 
complex  state  of  human  affairs,  you  cannot  be  kind  unless  you 
are  wise.  Thoughts  of  amaranthine  bloom  will  spring  up  in 
the  fields  ploughed  to  give  food  to  suffering  men.  It  would, 
indeed,  seem  to  be  a  simple  matter  at  first  glance.  "  Lovest 
thou  me  ?  "  —  "  Feed  my  lambs."  But  now  we  have  not  only 
to  find  pasture,  but  to  detect  the  lambs  under  the  disguise  of 
wolves,  and  restore  them  by  a  spell,  like  that  the  shepherd 
used,  to  their  natural  form  and  whiteness. 

And  for  this  present  day  appointed  for  Thanksgiving,  we 
may  say  that  if  we  know  of  so  many  wrongs,  woes,  and  errors 
in  the  world  yet  unredressed ;  if  in  this  nation  recent  decisions 
have  shown  a  want  of  moral  discrimination  in  important  sub 
jects,  that  make  us  pause  and  doubt  whether  we  can  join  in 
the  formal  congratulations  that  we  are  still  bodily  alive,  unas- 
eailed  by  the  ruder  modes  of  warfare,  and  enriched  with  the 
fatness  of  the  land ;  yet,  on  the  other  side,  we  know  of  causes 


THANKSGIVING.  247 

not  so  loudly  proclaimed  why  we  should  give  thanks.  Abun 
dantly  and  humbly  we  must  render  them  for  the  movement, 
now  sensible  in  the  heart  of  the  civilized  world,  although  it 
has  not  pervaded  the  entire  frame  —  for  that  movement  of 
contrition  and  love  which  forbids  men  of  earnest  thought  to 
eat,  drink,  or  be  merry  while  other  men  are  steeped  in  igno 
rance,  corruption,  and  woe ;  which  calls  the  king  from  his 
throne  of  gold,  and  the  poet  from  his  throne  of  mind,  to  lie 
with  the  beggar  in  the  kennel,  or  raise  him  from  it ;  which 
says  to  the  poet,  "  You  must  reform  rather  than  create  a 
world,"  and  to  him  of  the  golden  crown,  "  You  cannot  long 
remain  a  king  unless  you  are  also  a  man." 

Wherever  this  impulse  of  social  or  political  reform  darts  up 
its  rill  through  the  crusts  of  selfishness,  scoff  and  dread  also 
arise,  and  hang  like  a  heavy  mist  above  it.  Bat  the  voice  of 
the  rill  penetrates  far  enough  for  those  who  have  ears  to  hear. 
And  sometimes  it  is  the  case  that  "  those  who  came  to  scoff 
remain  to  pray."  In  two  articles  of  reviews,  one  foreign  and 
one  domestic,  which  have  come  under  our  eye  within  the  last 
fortnight,  the  writers  who  began  by  jeering  at  the  visionaries, 
seemed,  as  they  wrote,  to  be  touched  by  a  sense  that  without  a 
high  and  pure  faith  none  can  have  the  only  true  vision  of  the 
intention  of  God  as  to  the  destiny  of  man. 

We  recognized  as  a  happy  omen  that  there  is  cause  for 
thanksgiving,  and  that  our  people  may  be  better  than  they  seem, 
the  recent  meeting  to  organize  an  association  for  the  benefit  of 
prisoners.  We  are  not,  then,  wholly  Pharisees.  We  shall  not 
ask  the  blessing  of  this  day  in  the  mood  of,  "  Lord,  I  thank 
thee  that  I,  and  my  son,  and  my  brother,  are  not  as  other 
men  are,  —  not  as  those  publicans  imprisoned  there,"  while 
the  still  small  voice  cannot  make  us  hear  its  evidence  that, 
but  for  instruction,  example,  and  the  "  preventing  God,"  every 
sin  that  can  be  named  might  riot  in  our  hearts.  The  prisoner, 
too,  may  become  a  man.  Neither  his  open  nor  our  secret 
fault  must  utterly  dismay  us.  We  will  treat  him  as  if  he  had 


248  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

a  soul.  We  will  not  dare  to  hunt  him  into  a  beast  of  prey,  or 
trample  him  into  a  serpent.  We  will  give  him  some  crumbs 
from  the  table  which  grace  from  above  and  parental  love  be 
low  have  spread  for  us,  and  perhaps  he  will  recover  from 
these  ghastly  ulcers  that  deform  him  now. 

We  were  much  pleased  with  the  spirit  of  the  meeting  for 
the  benefit  of  prisoners,  to  which  we  have  just  alluded.  It 
was  simple,  business-like,  in  a  serious,  affectionate  temper. 
The  speakers  did  not  make  phrases  or  compliments  —  did  not 
slur  over  the  truth.  The  audience  showed  a  ready  vibration 
to  the  touch  of  just  and  tender  feeling.  The  time  was  evi 
dently  ripe  for  this  movement.  We  doubt  not  that  many  now 
darkened  souls  will  give  thanks  for  the  ray  of  light  that  will 
have  been  let  in  by  this  time  next  year.  It  is  but  a  grain  of 
mustard  seed,  but  the  promised  tree  will  grow  swiftly  if  tended 
in  a  pure  spirit ;  and  the  influence  of  good  measures  in  any 
one  place  will  be  immediate  in  this  province,  as  has  been  the 
case  with  every  attempt  in  behalf  of  another  sorrowing  class, 
the  insane. 

While  reading  a  notice  of  a  successful  attempt  to  have 
musical  performances  carried  through  in  concert  by  the  insane 
at  Rouen,  we  were  forcibly  reminded  of  a  similar  performance 
we  heard  a  few  weeks  ago  at  Sing  Sing.  There  the  female 
prisoners  joined  in  singing  a  hymn,  or  rather  choral,  which 
describes  the  last  thoughts  of  a  spirit  about  to  be  enfranchised 
from  the  body ;  each  stanza  of  which  ends  with  the  words, 
"  All  is  well ; "  and  they  sang  it  —  those  suffering,  degraded 
children  of  society  —  with  as  gentle  and  resigned  an  expres 
sion  as  if  they  were  sure  of  going  to  sleep  in  the  arms  of  a 
pure  mother.  The  good  spirit  that  dwelt  in  the  music  made 
them  its  own.  And  shall  not  the  good  spirit  of  religious  sym 
pathy  make  them  its  own  also,  and  more  permanently  ?  We 
shall  see.  Should  the  morally  insane,  by  wise  and  gentle  care, 
be  won  back  to  health,  as  the  wretched  bedlamites  have  been, 
will  not  the  angels  themselves  give  thanks  ?  And  will  any 


THANKSGIVING.  249 

man  dare  take  the  risk  of  opposing  plans  that  afford  even  a 
chance  of  such  a  result  ? 

Apart  also  from  good  that  is  public  and  many-voiced,  does 
not  each  of  us  know,  in  private  experience,  much  to  be  thank 
ful  for  ?  Not  only  the  innocent  and  daily  pleasures  that  we 
have  prized  according  to  our  wisdom  ;  of  the  sun  and  starry 
skies,  the  fields  of  green,  or  snow  scarcely  less  beautiful,  the 
loaf  eaten  with  an  appetite,  the  glow  of  labor,  the  gentle  signs 
of  common  affection  ;  but  have  not  some,  have  not  many  of 
us,  cause  to  be  thankful  for  enfranchisement  from  error  or 
infatuation ;  a  growth  in  knowledge  of  outward  things,  and 
instruction  within  the  soul  from  a  higher  source.  Have  we 
not  acquired  a  sense  of  more  refined  enjoyments ;  clear  con 
victions  ;  sometimes  a  serenity  in  which,  as  in  the  first  days 
of  June,  all  things  grow,  and  the  blossom  gives  place  to  fruit  ? 
Have  we  not  been  weaned  from  what  was  unfit  for  us,  or  un 
worthy  our  care  ?  and  have  not  those  ties  been  drawn  more 
close,  and  are  not  those  objects  seen  more  distinctly,  which 
shall  forever  be  worthy  the  purest  desires  of  our  souls? 
Have  we  learned  to  do  any  thing,  the  humblest,  in  the  service 
and  by  the  spirit  of  the  power  which  meaneth  all  things  well  ? 
If  so,  we  may  give  thanks,  and,  perhaps,  venture  to  offer  our 
solicitations  in  behalf  of  those  as  yet  less  favored  by  circum 
stances.  "When  even  a  few  shall  dare  do  so  with  the  whole 
heart  —  for  only  a  pure  heart  can  "  avail  much"  in  such 
prayers  —  then  ALL  shall  soon  be  well. 


CHRISTMAS. 

OUR  festivals  come  rather  too  near  together,  since  we  have 
so  few  of  them  ;  thanksgiving,  Christmas,  new  year's  day,  — 
and  then  none  again  till  July.  We  know  not  but  these  four, 
with  the  addition  of  "  a  day  set  apart  for  fasting  and  prayer," 
might  answer  the  purposes  of  rest  and  edification,  as  well  as 
a  calendar  full  of  saints'  days,  if  they  were  observed  in  a  bet 
ter  spirit.  But  thanksgiving  is  devoted  to  good  dinners; 
Christmas  and  new  year's  days,  to  making  presents  and  com 
pliments  ;  fast  day,  to  playing  at  cricket  and  other  games  ; 
and  the  fourth  of  July,  to  boasting  of  the  past,  rather  than 
to  plans  how  to  deserve  its  benefits  and  secure  its  fruits. 

We  value  means  of  marking  time  by  appointed  days,  be 
cause  man,  on  one  side  of  his  nature  so  ardent  and  aspiring, 
is  on  the  other  so  slippery  and  indolent  a  being,  that  he  needs 
incessant  admonitions  to  redeem  the  time.  Time  flows  on 
steadily,  whether  he  regards  it  or  not ;  yet  unless  he  keep 
time,  there  is  no  music  in  that  flow.  The  sands  drop  with 
inevitable  speed,  yet  each  waits  long  enough  to  receive,  if  it 
be  ready,  the  intellectual  touch  that  should  turn  it  to  a  sand 
of  gold. 

Time,  says  the  Grecian  fable,  is  the  parent  of  Power ; 
Power  is  the  father  of  Genius  and  Wisdom ;  Time,  then,  is 
grandfather  of  the  noblest  of  the  human  family,  and  we  must 
respect  the  aged  sire  whom  we  see  on  the  frontispiece  of  the 
almanacs,  and  believe  his  scythe  was  meant  to  mow  down 
harvests  ripened  for  an  immortal  use. 

Yet  the  best  provision  made  by  the  mind  of  society,  at 
large,  for  these  admonitions,  soon  loses  its  efficacy,  and  re- 

(2-50) 


CHRISTMAS.  251 

quires  that  individual  earnestness,  individual  piety,  should 
continually  reanimate  the  most  beautiful  form.  The  world 
has  never  seen  arrangements  which  might  more  naturally 
offer  good  suggestions,  than  those  of  the  church  of  Rome. 
The  founders  of  that  church  stood  very  near  a  history,  radi 
ant  at  every  page  with  divine  light.  All  their  rites  and  cer 
emonial  days  illustrate  facts  of  a  universal  interest.  But  the 
life  with  which  piety,  first,  and  afterwards  the  genius  of  great 
artists,  invested  these  symbols,  waned  at  last,  except  to  a 
thoughtful  few.  Reverence  was  forgotten  in  the  multitude 
of  genuflections  ;  the  rosary  became  a  string  of  beads,  rather 
than  a  series  of  religious  meditations,  and  "  the  glorious  com 
pany  of  saints  and  martyrs  "  were  not  so  much  regarded  as 
the  teachers  of  heavenly  truth,  as  intercessors  to  obtain  for 
their  votaries  the  temporal  gifts  they  craved. 

Yet  we  regret  that  some  of  these  symbols  had  not  been 
more  reverenced  by  Protestants,  as  the  possible  occasion  of 
good  thoughts.  And  among  others  we  regret  that  the  day  set 
apart  to  commemorate  the  birth  of  Jesus  should  have  been 
stripped,  even  by  those  who  observe  it,  of  many  impressive 
and  touching  accessories. 

If  ever  there  was  an  occasion  on  which  the  arts  could 
become  all  but  omnipotent  in  the  service  of  a  holy  thought, 
it  is  this  of  the  birth  of  the  child  Jesus.  In  the  palmy  days 
of  the  Catholic  religion,  they  may  be  said  to  have  wrought 
miracles  in  its  behalf;  and,  in  our  colder  time,  when  we 
rather  reflect  that  light  from  a  different  point  of  view,  than 
transport  ourselves  into  it,  —  who,  that  has  an  eye  and  ear 
faithful  to  the  soul,  is  not  conscious  of  inexhaustible  benefits 
from  some  of  the  works  by  which  sublime  geniuses  have  ex 
pressed  their  ideas  in  the  adorations  of  the  Magi  and  the 
Shepherds,  in  the  Virgin  with  the  infant  Jesus,  or  that  work 
which  expresses  what  Christendom  at  large  has  not  even 
begun  to  realize,  —  that  work  which  makes  us  conscious,  as 
we  listen,  why  the  soul  of  man  was  thought  worthy  and  able 


252  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

to  upbear  a  cross  of  such  dreadful  weight — the  Messiah  of 
Handel. 

Christmas  would  seem  to  be  the  day  peculiarly  sacred  to 
children,  and  something  of  this  feeling  here  shows  itself 
among  us,  though  rather  from  German  influence  than  of 
native  growth.  The  evergreen  tree  is  often  reared  for  the 
children  on  Christmas  evening,  and  its  branches  cluster  with 
little  tokens  that  may,  at  least,  give  them  a  sense  that  the 
world  is  rich,  and  that  there  are  some  in  it  who  care  to 
bless  them.  It  is  a  charming  sight  to  see  their  glittering 
eyes,  and  well  worth  much  trouble  in  preparing  the  Christ 
mas  tree. 

Yet,  on  this  occasion  as  on  all  others,  we  could  wish  to 
see  pleasure  offered  them  in  a  form  less  selfish  than  it  is. 
When  shall  we  read  of  banquets  prepared  for  the  halt,  the 
lame,  and  the  blind,  on  the  day  that  is  said  to  have  brought 
their  Friend  into  the  world?  When  will  the  children  be  taught 
to  ask  all  the  cold  and  ragged  little  ones,  whom  they  have  seen 
during  the  day  wistfully  gazing  at  the  displays  in  the  shop- 
windows,  to  share  the  joys  of  Christmas  eve  ? 

We  borrow  the  Christmas  tree  from  Germany.  Would 
that  we  might  but  borrow  with  it  that  feeling  which  pervades 
all  their  stories  about  the  influence  of  the  Christ  child  ;  and 
has,  I  doubt  not, — for  the  spirit  of  literature  is  always,  though 
refined,  the  essence  of  popular  life,  —  pervaded  the  conduct  of 
children  there ! 

We  will  mention  two  of  these  as  happily  expressive  of  dif 
ferent  sides  of  the  desirable  character.  One  is  a  legend  of  the 
Saint  Hermann  Joseph.  The  legend  runs,  that  this  saint, 
when  a  little  boy,  passed  daily  by  a  niche  where  was  an 
image  of  the  Virgin  and  Child,  and  delighted  there  to  pay  his 
devotions.  His  heart  was  so  drawn  towards  the  holy  child, 
that,  one  daj,  having  received  what  seemed  to  him  a  gift 
truly  precious,  —  to  wit,  a  beautiful  red  and  yellow  apple,  — 
he  ventured  to  offer  it,  with  his  prayer.  To  his  unspeakable 


CHRISTMAS.  253 

delight,  the  child  put  forth  its  hand  and  took  the  apple. 
After  that  day,  never  was  a  gift  bestowed  upon  the  little 
Hermann  that  was  not  carried  to  the  same  place.  He  needed 
nothing  for  himself,  but  dedicated  all  his  childish  goods  to 
the  altar. 

After  a  while,  grief  comes.  His  father,  who  was  a  poor 
man,  finds  it  necessary  to  take  him  from  school  and  bind  him 
to  a  trade.  He  communicates  his  woes  to  his  friends  of  the 
niche,  and  the  Virgin  comforts  him,  like  a  mother,  and  be 
stows  on  him  money,  by  means  of  which  he  rises,  (not  to  ride 
in  a  gilt  coach  like  Lord  Mayor  Whittington,)  but  to  be  a 
learned  and  tender  shepherd  of  men. 

Another  still  more  touching  story  is  that  of  the  holy 
Rupert.  Rupert  was  the  only  child  of  a  princely  house, 
and  had  something  to  give  besides  apples.  But  his  gen 
erosity  and  human  love  were  such,  that,  as  a  child,  he  could 
never  see  poor  children  suffering  without  despoiling  himself 
of  all  he  had  with  him  in  their  behalf.  His  mother  was,  at 
first,  displeased  at  this ;  but  when  he  replied,  "  They  are  thy 
children  too,"  her  reproofs  yielded  to  tears. 

One  time,  when  he  had  given  away  his  coat  to  a  poor  child, 
he  got  wearied  and  belated  on  his  homeward  way.  He  lay 
down  a  while,  and  fell  asleep.  Then  he  dreamed  that  he  was 
on  a  river  shore,  and  saw  a  mild  and  noble  old  man  bathing 
many  children.  After  he  had  plunged  them  into  the  water, 
he  would  place  them  on  a  beautiful  island,  where  they  looked 
white  and  glorious  as  little  angels.  Rupert  was  seized  with 
strong  desire  to  join  them,  and  begged  the  old  man  to  bathe 
him,  also,  in  the  stream.  But  he  was  answered,  "  It  is  not 
yet  time."  Just  then  a  rainbow  spanned  the  island,  and  on 
its  arch  was  enthroned  the  child  Jesus,  dressed  in  a  coat  that 
Rupert  knew  to  be  his  own.  And  the  child  said  to  the 
others,  "  See  this  coat;  it  is  one  my  brother  Rupert  has  just 
sent  to  me.  He  has  given  us  many  gifts  from  his  love ;  shall 

99 
24 


254  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

we  not  ask  him  to  join  us  here  ?  "  And  they  shouted  a  musi 
cal  "  yes ; "  and  the  child  started  from  his  dream.  But  he 
had  lain  too  long  on  the  damp  bank  of  the  river,  without  his 
coat.  A  cold  and  fever  soon  sent  him  to  join  the  band  of  his 
brothers  in  their  home. 

These  are  legends,  superstitions,  will  you  say  ?  But,  in 
casting  aside  the  shell,  have  we  retained  the  kernel  ?  The 
image  of  the  child  Jesus  is  not  seen  in  the  open  street ;  does 
his  spirit  find  other  means  to  express  itself  there  ?  Protes 
tantism  did  not  mean,  we  suppose,  to  deaden  the  spirit  in  ex 
cluding  the  form  ? 

The  thought  of  Jesus,  as  a  child,  has  great  weight  with 
children  who  have  learned  to  think  of  him  at  all.  In  think 
ing  of  him,  they  form  an  image  of  all  that  the  morning  of  a 
pure  and  fervent  life  should  be  and  bring.  In  former  days  I 
knew  a  boy  artist,  whose  genius,  at  that  time,  showed  high 
promise.  He  was  not  more  than  fourteen  years  old  ;  a  slight, 
pale  boy,  with  a  beaming  eye.  The  hopes  and  sympathy  of 
friends,  gained  by  his  talent,  had  furnished  him  with  a  studio 
and  orders  for  some  pictures.  He  had  picked  up  from  the 
streets  a  boy  still  younger  and  poorer  than  himself,  to  take 
care  of  the  room  and  prepare  his  colors  ;  and  the  two  boys 
were  as  content  in  their  relation  as  Michael  Angelo  with  his 
Urbino.  If  you  went  there  you  found  exposed  to  view  many 
pretty  pictures  :  a  Girl  with  a  Dove,  the  Guitar  Player, 
and  such  subjects  as  are  commonly  supposed  to  interest  at  his 
age.  But,  hid  in  a  corner,  and  never  shown,  unless  to  the 
beggar  page,  or  some  most  confidential  friend,  was  the  real 
object  of  his  love  and  pride,  the  slowly  growing  work  of 
secret  hours.  The  subject  of  this  picture  was  Christ  teaching 
the  doctors.  And  in  those  doctors  he  had  expressed  all  he 
had  already  observed  of  the  pedantry  and  shallow  conceit  of 
those  in  whom  mature  years  have  not  unfolded  the  soul; 
and  in  the  child,  all  he  felt  that  early  youth  should  be  and 
seek,  though,  alas !  his  own  feet  failed  him  on  the  difficult 


CHRISTMAS.  255 

road.  This  one  record  of  the  youth  of  Jesus  had,  at  least, 
been  much  to  his  mind. 

In  earlier  days,  the  little  saints  thought  they  best  imitated 
the  Emanuel  by  giving  apples  and  coats ;  but  we  know  not 
why,  in  our  age,  that  esteems  itself  so  enlightened,  they 
should  not  become  also  the  givers  of  spiritual  gifts.  We  see 
in  them,  continually,  impulses  that  only  require  a  good  direc 
tion  to  effect  infinite  good.  See  the  little  girls  at  work  for 
foreign  missions  ;  that  is  not  useless.  They  devote  the  time 
to  a  purpose  that  is  not  selfish  ;  the  horizon  of  their  thoughts 
is  extended.  But  they  are  perfectly  capable  of  becoming 
home  missionaries  as  well.  The  principle  of  stewardship 
would  make  them  so. 

1  have  seen  a  little  girl  of  thirteen, — who  had  much  service, 
too,  to  perform,  for  a  hard-working  mother, —  in  the  midst  of  a 
circle  of  poor  children  whom  she  gathered  daily  to  a  morning 
school.  She  took  them  from  the  door-steps  and  the  ditches  ; 
she  washed  their  hands  and  faces ;  she  taught  them  to  read  and 
to  sew  ;  and  she  told  them  stories  that  had  delighted  her  own 
infancy.  In  her  face,  though  in  feature  and  complexion  plain, 
was  something,  already,  of  a  Madonna  sweetness,  and  it  had 
no  way  eclipsed  the  gayety  of  childhood. 

I  have  seen  a  boy  scarce  older,  brought  up  for  some  time 
with  the  sons  of  laborers,  who,  so  soon  as  he  found  himself 
possessed  of  superior  advantages,  thought  not  of  surpassing 
others,  but  of  excelling,  and  then  imparting  —  and  he  was 
able  to  do  it.  If  the  other  boys  had  less  leisure,  and  could 
pay  for  less  instruction,  they  did  not  suffer  for  it.  He  could 
not  be  happy  unless  they  also  could  enjoy  Milton,  and  pass 
from  nature  to  natural  philosophy.  He  performed,  though  in 
a  childish  way,  and  in  no  Grecian  garb,  the  part  of  Apollo 
amid  the  herdsmen  of  Admetus. 

The  cause  of  education  would  be  indefinitely  furthered,  if, 
in  addition  to  formal  means,  there  were  but  this  principle 
awakened  in  the  hearts  of  the  young,  that  what  they  have 


256  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

they  must  bestow.  All  are  not  natural  instructors,  but  a  large 
proportion  are ;  and  those  who  do  possess  such  a  talent  are 
the  best  possible  teachers  to  those  a  little  younger  than  them 
selves.  Many  have  more  patience  with  the  difficulties  they 
have  lately  left  behind,  and  enjoy  their  power  of  assisting 
more  than  those  farther  removed  in  age  and  knowledge  do. 

Then  the  intercourse  may  be  far  more  congenial  and  profit 
able  than  where  the  teacher  receives  for  hire  all  sorts  of  pupils, 
as  they  are  sent  him  by  their  guardians.  Here  he  need  only 
choose  those  who  have  a  predisposition  for  what  he  is  best  able 
to  teach.  And,  as  I  would  have  the  so-called  higher  instruc 
tion  as  much  diffused  in  this  way  as  the  lower,  there  would  be 
a  chance  of  awakening  all  the  power  that  now  lies  latent. 

If  a  girl,  for  instance,  who  has  only  a  passable  talent  for 
music,  but  who,  from  the  advantage  of  social  position,  has 
been  able  to  gain  thorough  instruction,  felt  it  her  duty  to 
teach  whomsoever  she  knew  that  had  such  a  talent,  without 
money  to  cultivate  it,  the  good  is  obvious. 

Those  who  are  learning  receive  an  immediate  benefit  by 
an  effort  to  rearrange  and  interpret  what  they  learn ;  so  the 
use  of  this  justice  would  be  twofold. 

Some  efforts  are  made  here  and  there  ;  nay,  sometimes  there 
are  those  who  can  say  they  have  returned  usury  for  every  gift 
of  fate.  And,  would  others  make  the  same  experiments,  they 
might  find  Utopia  not  so  far  off  as  the  children  of  this  world, 
wise  in  securing  their  own  selfish  ease,  would  persuade  us  it 
must  always  be. 

We  have  hinted  what  sort  of  Christmas  box  we  would  wish 
for  the  children.  It  would  be  one  full,  as  that  of  the  child 
Christ  must  be,  of  the  pieces  of  silver  that  were  lost  and  are 
found.  But  Christmas,  with  its  peculiar  associations,  has  deep 
interest  for  men,  and  women  too,  no  less.  It  has  so  in  their 
mutual  relations.  At  the  time  thus  celebrated,  a  pure  woman 
saw  in  her  child  what  the  Son  of  man  should  be  as  a  child  of 
God.  She  anticipated  for  him  a  life  of  glory  to  God,  peace 


CHRISTMAS.  257 

and  good  will  to  man.  In  every  young  mother's  heart,  who 
has  any  purity  of  heart,  the  same  feelings  arise.  But  most 
of  these  mothers  let  them  go  without  obeying  their  instruc 
tions.  If  they  did  not,  we  should  see  other  children  —  other 
men  than  now  throng  our  streets.  The  boy  could  not  inva 
riably  disappoint  the  mother,  the  man  the  wife,  who  steadily 
demanded  of  him  such  a  career. 

And  man  looks  upon  woman,  in  this  relation,  always  as  he 
should.  Does  he  see  in  her  a  holy  mother  worthy  to  guard 
the  infancy  of  an  immortal  soul  ?  Then  she  assumes  in  his 
eyes  those  traits  which  the  Romish  church  loved  to  revere  in 
Mary.  Frivolity,  base  appetite,  contempt  are  exorcised ;  and 
man  and  woman  appear  again  in  unprofaned  connection,  as 
brother  and  sister,  the  children  and  the  servants  of  the  one 
Divine  Love,  and  pilgrims  to  a  common  aim. 

Were  all  this  right  in  the  private  sphere,  the  public  would 
soon  right  itself  also,  and  the  nations  of  Christendom  might 
join  in  a  celebration,  such  as  "kings  and  prophets  waited 
for,"  and  so  many  martyrs  died  to  achieve,  of  Christ-Mass. 
22* 


MARIANA.* 

AMONG  those  whom  I  met  in  a  recent  visit  at  Chicago  was 
Mrs.  Z.,  the  aunt  of  an  old  schoolmate,  to  whom  I  impatiently 
hastened,  to  demand  news  of  Mariana.  The  answer  startled 
me.  Mariana,  so  full  of  life,  was  dead.  That  form,  the  most 
rich  in  energy  and  coloring  of  any  I  had  ever  seen,  had  faded 
from  the  earth.  The  circle  of  youthful  associations  had  given 
way  in  the  part  that  seemed  the  strongest.  "What  I  now 
learned  of  the  story  of  this  life,  and  what  was  by  myself  re 
membered,  may  be  bound  together  in  this  slight  sketch. 

At  the  boarding  school  to  which  I  was  too  early  sent,  a  fond, 
a  proud,  and  timid  child,  I  saw  among  the  ranks  of  the  gay 
and  graceful,  bright  or  earnest  girls,  only  one  who  interested 
my  fancy  or  touched  my  young  heart ;  and  this  was  Mariana. 
She  was,  on  the  father's  side,  of  Spanish  Creole  blood,  but  had 
been  sent  to  the  Atlantic  coast,  to  receive  a  school  education 
under  the  care  of  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Z. 

This  lady  had  kept  her  mostly  at  home  with  herself,  and 
Mariana  had  gone  from  her  house  to  a  day  school ;  but  the 
aunt  being  absent  for  a  time  in  Europe,  she  had  now  been 
unfortunately  committed  for  some  time  to  the  mercies  of  a 
boarding  school. 

A  strange  bird  she  proved  there  —  a  lonely  one,  that  could 
not  make  for  itself  a  summer.  At  first,  her  schoolmates  were 
captivated  with  her  ways,  her  love  of  wild  dances  and  sudden 

[*  It  is  well  known  that  in  this  sketch  my  sister  gives  an  account  of  an 
incident  in  the  history  of  her  own  school-girl  life.  I  need  scarcely  say  that 
only  so  far  as  this  incident  is  concerned  is  the  story  of  Mariana  in  any 
sense  autobiographical.  — ED.] 

(258) 


MARIANA.  259 

song,  her  freaks  of  passion  and  of  wit.  She  was  always  new, 
always  surprising,  and,  for  a  time,  charming. 

But,  after  a  while,  they  tired  of  her.  She  could  never  be 
depended  on  to  join  in  their  plans,  yet  she  expected  them  to 
follow  out  hers  with  their  whole  strength.  She  was  very  lov 
ing,  even  infatuated  in  her  own  affections,  and  exacted  from 
those  who  had  professed  any  love  for  her,  the  devotion  she 
was  willing  to  bestow. 

Yet  there  was  a  vein  of  haughty  caprice  in  her  character ; 
a  love  of  solitude,  which  made  her  at  times  wish  to  retire 
entirely ;  and  at  these  times  she  would  expect  to  be  thoroughly 
understood,  and  let  alone,  yet  to  be  welcomed  back  when  she 
returned.  She  did  not  thwart  others  in  their  humors,  but  she 
never  doubted  of  great  indulgence  from  them. 

Some  singular  ways  she  had,  which,  when  new,  charmed, 
but,  after  acquaintance,  displeased  her  companions.  She  had 
by  nature  the  same  habit  and  power  of  excitement  that  is 
described  in  the  spinning  dervishes  of  the  East.  Like  them, 
she  would  spin  until  all  around  her  were  giddy,  while  her  own 
brain,  instead  of  being  disturbed,  was  excited  to  great  action. 
Pausing,  she  would  declaim  verse  of  others  or  her  own  ;  perform 
many  parts,  with  strange  catch-words  and  burdens  that  seemed 
to  act  with  mystical  power  on  her  own  fancy,  sometimes  stimu 
lating  her  to  convulse  the  hearer  with  laughter,  sometimes  to 
melt  him  to  tears.  When  her  power  began  to  languish,  she 
would  spin  again  till  fired  to  recommence  her  singular  drama, 
into  which  she  wove  figures  from  the  scenes  of  her  earlier 
childhood,  her  companions,  and  the  dignitaries  she  sometimes 
saw,  with  fantasies  unknown  to  life,  unknown  to  heaven  or 
earth. 

This  excitement,  as  may  be  supposed,  was  not  good  for  her, 
It  oftenest  came  on  in  the  evening,  and  spoiled  her  sleep.  She 
would  wake  in  the  night,  and  cheat  her  restlessness  by  inven* 
tions  that  teased,  while  they  sometimes  diverted  her  com- 
panions. 


260  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

She  was  also  a  sleep-walker ;  and  this  one  trait  of  her  case 
did  somewhat  alarm  her  guardians,  who,  otherwise,  showed 
the  same  profound  stupidity,  as  to  this  peculiar  being,  usual  in 
the  overseers  of  the  young.  They  consulted  a  physician,  who 
said  she  would  outgrow  it,  and  prescribed  a  milk  diet. 

Meantime,  the  fever  of  this  ardent  and  too  early  stimulated 
nature  was  constantly  increased  by  the  restraints  and  narrow 
routine  of  the  boarding  school.  She  was  always  devising 
means  to  break  in  upon  it.  She  had  a  taste,  which  would 
have  seemed  ludicrous  to  her  mates,  if  they  had  not  felt  some 
awe  of  her,  from  a  touch  of  genius  and  power,  that  never  left 
her,  for  costume  and  fancy  dresses ;  always  some  sash  twisted 
about  her,  some  drapery,  something  odd  in  the  arrangement 
of  her  hair  and  dress ;  so  that  the  methodical  preceptress  dared 
not  let  her  go  out  without  a  careful  scrutiny  and  remodelling, 
whose  soberizing  effects  generally  disappeared  the  moment 
she  was  in  the  free  air. 

At  last,  a  vent  for  her  was  found  in  private  theatricals. 
Play  followed  play,  and  in  these  and  the  rehearsals  she  found 
entertainment  congenial  with  her.  The  principal  parts,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  fell  to  her  lot ;  most  of  the  good  suggestions 
and  arrangements  came  from  her,  and  for  a  time  she  ruled 
masterly  and  shone  triumphant. 

During  these  performances  the  girls  had  heightened  their 
natural  bloom  with  artificial  red ;  this  was  delightful  to  them 
—  it  was  something  so  out  of  the  way.  But  Mariana,  after 
the  plays  were  over,  kept  her  carmine  saucer  on  the  dressing 
table,  and  put  on  her  blushes  regularly  as  the  morning. 

When  stared  and  jeered  at,  she  at  first  said  she  did  it 
because  she  thought  it  made  her  look  prettier ;  but,  after  a 
while,  she  became  quite  petulant  about  it  —  would  make  no 
reply  to  any  joke,  but  merely  kept  on  doing  it. 

This  irritated  the  girls,  as  all  eccentricity  does  the  world  in 
general,  more  than  vice  or  malignity.  They  talked  it  over 
among  themselves,  till  they  got  wrought  up  to  a  desire  of 


MARIANA.  261 

punishing,  once  for  all,  this  sometimes  amusing,  but  so  often 
provoking  nonconformist. 

Having  obtained  the  leave  of  the  mistress,  they  laid,  with 
great  glee,  a  plan  one  evening,  which  was  to  be  carried  into 
execution  next  day  at  dinner. 

Among  Mariana's  irregularities  was  a  great  aversion  to 
the  meal-time  ceremonial.  So  long,  so  tiresome  she  found  it, 
to  be  seated  at  a  certain  moment,  to  wait  while  each  one  was 
served  at  so  large  a  table,  and  one  where  there  was  scarcely 
any  conversation  ;  from  day  to  day  it  became  more  heavy  to 
her  to  sit  there,  or  go  there  at  all.  Often  as  possible  she 
excused  herself  on  the  ever-convenient  plea  of  headache,  and 
was  hardly  ever  ready  when  the  dinner  bell  rang. 

To-day  it  found  her  on  the  balcony,  lost  in  gazing  on  the 
beautiful  prospect.  I  have  heard  her  say,  afterwards,  she  had 
rarely  in  her  life  been  so  happy  —  and  she  was  one  with 
whom  happiness  was  a  still  rapture.  It  was  one  of  the  most 
blessed  summer  days;  the  shadows  of  great  white  clouds 
empurpled  the  distant  hills  for  a  few  moments  only  to  leave 
them  more  golden ;  the  tall  grass  of  the  wide  fields  waved  in 
the  softest  breeze.  Pure  blue  were  the  heavens,  and  the  same 
hue  of  pure  contentment  was  in  the  heart  of  Mariana. 

Suddenly  on  her  bright  mood  jarred  the  dinner  bell.  At 
first  rose  her  usual  thought,  I  will  not,  cannot  go ;  and  then 
the  must,  which  daily  life  can  always  enforce,  even  upon  the 
butterflies  and  birds,  came,  and  she  walked  reluctantly  to  her 
room.  She  merely  changed  her  dress,  and  never  thought  of 
adding  the  artificial  rose  to  her  cheek. 

When  she  took  her  seat  in  the  dining  hall,  and  was  asked 
if  she  would  be  helped,  raising  her  eyes,  she  saw  the  person 
who  asked  her  was  deeply  rouged,  with  a  bright,  glaring  spot, 
perfectly  round,  in  either  cheek.  She  looked  at  the  next  —  the 
same  apparition  !  She  then  slowly  passed  her  eyes  down  the 
whole  line,  and  saw  the  same,  with  a  suppressed  smile 
distorting  every  countenance.  Catching  the  design  at  once, 


262  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

she  deliberately  looked  along  her  own  side  of  the  table,  at 
every  schoolmate  in  turn  ;  every  one  had  joined  in  the  trick. 
The  teachers  strove  to  be  grave,  but  she  saw  they  enjoyed  the 
joke.  The  servants  could  not  suppress  a  titter. 

When  Warren  Hastings  stood  at  the  bar  of  Westminster 
Hall ;  when  the  Methodist  preacher  walked  through  a  line 
of  men,  each  of  whom  greeted  him  with  a  brickbat  or  a  rot 
ten  egg,  —  they  had  some  preparation  for  the  crisis,  and  it 
might  not  be  very  difficult  to  meet  it  with  an  impassive  brow. 
Our  little  girl  was  quite  unprepared  to  find  herself  in  the 
midst  of  a  world  which  despised  her,  and  triumphed  in  her 
disgrace. 

She  had  ruled  like  a  queen  in  the  midst  of  her  compan 
ions;  she  had  shed  her  animation  through  their  lives,  and 
loaded  them  with  prodigal  favors,  nor  once  suspected  that  a 
powerful  favorite  might  not  be  loved.  Now,  she  felt  that  she 
had  been  but  a  dangerous  plaything  in  the  hands  of  those 
whose  hearts  she  never  had  doubted. 

Yet  the  occasion  found  her  equal  to  it;  for  Mariana  had 
the  kind  of  spirit,  which,  in  a  better  cause,  had  made  the 
Roman  matron  truly  say  of  her  death  wound,  "  It  is  not  pain 
ful,  Foetus."  She  did  not  blench  —  she  did  not  change  coun 
tenance.  She  swallowed  her^dinner  with  apparent  composure. 
She  made  remarks  to  those  near  her  as  if  she  had  no  eyes. 

The  wrath  of  the  foe  of  course  rose  higher,  and  the  mo 
ment  they  were  freed  from  the  restraints  of  the  dining  room, 
they  all  ran  off,  gayly  calling,  and  sarcastically  laughing,  with 
backward  glances,  at  Mariana,  left  alone. 

She  went  alone  to  her  room,  locked  the  door,  and  threw 
herself  on  the  floor  in  strong  convulsions.  These  had  some 
times  threatened  her  life,  as  a  child,  but  of  later  years  she  had 
outgrown  them.  School  hours  came,  and  she  was  not  there. 
A  little  girl,  sent  to  her  door,  could  get  no  answer.  The 
teachers  became  alarmed,  and  broke  it  open.  Bitter  was 
their  penitence  and  that  of  her  companions  at  the  state  in 


MARIANA.  263 

which  they  found  her.  For  some  hours  terrible  anxiety  was 
felt ;  but  at  last,  Nature,  exhausted,  relieved  herself  by  a  deep 
slumber. 

From  this  Mariana  rose  an  altered  being.  She  made  no 
reply  to  the  expressions  of  sorrow  from  her  companions,  none 
to  the  grave  and  kind,  but  undiscerning  comments  of  her 
teacher.  She  did  not  name  the  source  of  her  anguish,  and 
its  poisoned  dart  sunk  deeply  in.  It  was  this  thought  which 
stung  her  so.  —  "  What,  not  one,  not  a  single  one,  in  the  hour 
of  trial,  to  take  my  part !  not  one  who  refused  to  take  part 
against  me ! "  Past  words  of  love,  and  caresses  little  heeded 
at  the  time,  rose  to  her  memory,  and  gave  fuel  to  her  distem 
pered  thoughts.  Beyond  the  sense  of  universal  perfidy,  of 
burning  resentment,  she  could  not  get.  And  Mariana,  born 
for  love,  now  hated  all  the  world. 

The  change,  however,  which  these  feelings  made  in  her 
conduct  and  appearance  bore  no  such  construction  to  the  care 
less  observer.  Her  gay  freaks  were  quite  gone,  her  wildness, 
her  invention.  Her  dress  was  uniform,  her  manner  much 
subdued.  Her  chief  interest  seemed  now  to  lie  in  her  studies 
and  in  music.  Her  companions  she  never  sought;  but  they, 
partly  from  uneasy,  remorseful  feelings,  partly  that  they  really 
liked  her  much  better  now  that  she  did  not  oppress  and  puz 
zle  them,  sought  her  continually.  And  here  the  black  shadow 
comes  upon  her  life  —  the  only  stain  upon  the  history  of 
Mariana. 

They  talked  to  her  as  girls,  having  few  topics,  naturally 
do  of  one  another.  And  the  demon  rose  within  her,  and 
spontaneously,  without  design,  generally  without  words  of 
positive  falsehood,  she  became  a  genius  of  discord  among 
them.  She  fanned  those  flames  of  envy  and  jealousy  which 
a  wise,  true  word  from  a  third  person  will  often  quench  for 
ever  ;  by  a  glance,  or  a  seemingly  light  reply,  she  planted  the 
seeds  of  dissension,  till  there  was  scarce  a  peaceful  affection 
or  sincere  intimacy  in  the  circle  where  she  lived,  and  could 


264  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

not  but  rule,  for  she  was  one  whose  nature  was  to  that  of  the 
others  as  fire  to  clay. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  I  came  to  the  school,  and  first  saw 
Mariana.  Me  she  charmed  at  once,  for  I  was  a  sentimental 
child,  who,  in  my  early  ill  health,  had  been  indulged  in  read 
ing  novels  till  I  had  no  eyes  for  the  common  greens  and 
browns  of  life.  The  heroine  of  one  of  these,  "  the  Bandit's 
Bride,"  I  immediately  saw  in  Mariana.  Surely  the  Bandit's 
Bride  had  just  such  hair,  and  such  strange,  lively  ways,  and 
such  a  sudden  flash  of  the  eye.  The  Bandit's  Bride,  too, 
was  born  to  be  "misunderstood"  by  all  but  her  lover.  But 
Mariana,  I  was  determined,  should  be  more  fortunate ;  for, 
until  her  lover  appeared,  I  myself  would  be  the  wise  and 
delicate  being  who  could  understand  her. 

It  was  not,  however,  easy  to  approach  her  for  this  purpose. 
Did  I  offer  to  run  and  fetch  her  handkerchief,  she  was 
obliged  to  go  to  her  room,  and  would  rather  do  it  herself.  She 
did  not  like  to  have  people  turn  over  for  her  the  leaves  of  the 
music  book  as  she  played.  Did  I  approach  my  stool  to  her 
feet,  she  moved  away,  as  if  to  give  me  room.  The  bunch  of 
wild  flowers  which  I  timidly  laid  beside  her  plate  was  left 
there. 

After  some  weeks  my  desire  to  attract  her  notice  really 
preyed  upon  me,  and  one  day,  meeting  her  alone  in  the  entry, 
I  fell  upon  my  knees,  and  kissing  her  hand,  cried,  "  O  Mari 
ana,  do  let  me  love  you,  and  try  to  love  me  a  little."  But  my 
idol  snatched  away  her  hand,  and,  laughing  more  wildly  than 
the  Bandit's  Bride  was  ever  described  to  have  done,  ran  into 
her  room.  After  that  day  her  manner  to  me  was  not  only 
cold,  but  repulsive ;  I  felt  myself  scorned,  and  became  very 
unhappy. 

Perhaps  four  months  had  passed  thus,  when,  one  after 
noon,  it  became  obvious  that  something  more  than  common  was 
brewing.  Dismay  and  mystery  were  written  in  many  faces 
of  the  older  girls  ;  much  whispering  was  going  on  in  corners. 


MARIANA.  265 

In  the  evening,  after  prayers,  the  principal  bade  us  stay ; 
and,  in  a  grave,  sad  voice,  summoned  forth  Mariana  to  an 
swer  charges  to  be  made  against  her. 

Mariana  came  forward,  and  leaned  against  the  chimney- 
piece.  Eight  of  the  older  girls  came  forward,  and  preferred 
against  her  charges  —  alas  !  too  well  founded — of  calumny  and 
falsehood. 

My  heart  sank  within  me,  as  one  after  the  other  brought 
up  their  proofs,  and  I  saw  they  were  too  strong  to  be  resisted. 
I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  this  second  disgrace  of  my 
shining  favorite.  The  first  had  been  whispered  to  me,  though 
the  girls  did  not  like  to  talk  about  it.  I  must  confess,  such  is 
the  charm  of  strength  to  softer  natures,  that  neither  of  these 
crises  could  deprive  Mariana  of  hers  in  my  eyes. 

At  first,  she  defended  herself  with  self-possession  and  elo 
quence.  But  when  she  found  she  could  no  more  resist  the 
truth,  she  suddenly  threw  herself  down,  dashing  her  head, 
with  all  her  force,  against  the  iron  hearth,  on  which  a  fire  was 
burning,  and  was  taken  up  senseless. 

The  affright  of  those  present  was  great.  Now  that  they 
had  perhaps  killed  her,  they  reflected  it  would  have  been  as 
well  if  they  had  taken  warning  from  the  former  occasion,  and 
approached  very  carefully  a  nature  so  capable  of  any  ex 
treme.  After  a  while  she  revived,  with  a  faint  groan,  amid 
the  sobs  of  her  companions.  I  was  on  my  knees  by  the  bed, 
and  held  her  cold  hand.  One  of  those  most  aggrieved  took  it 
from  me  to  beg  her  pardon,  and  say  it  was  impossible  not  to 
love  her.  She  made  no  reply. 

Neither  that  night,  nor  for  several  days,  could  a  word  be 
obtained  from  her,  nor  would  she  touch  food ;  but,  when  it 
was  presented  to  her,  or  any  one  drew  near  for  any  cause,  she 
merely  turned  away  her  head,  and  gave  no  sign.  The  teacher 
saw  that  some  terrible  nervous  affection  had  fallen  upon  her 
—  that  she  grew  more  and  more  feverish.  She  knew  not 
what  to  do. 

23 


266  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Meanwhile,  a  new  revolution  had  taken  place  in  the  mind 
of  the  passionate  but  nobly-tempered  child.  All  these  months 
nothing  but  the  sense  of  injury  had  rankled  in  her  heart. 
She  had  gone  on  in  one  mood,  doing  what  the  demon 
prompted,  without  scruple  and  without  fear. 

But  at  the  moment  of  detection,  the  tide  ebbed,  and  the 
bottom  of  her  soul  lay  revealed  to  her  eye.  How  black,  how 
stained  and  sad !  Strange,  strange  that  she  had  not  seen  be 
fore  the  baseness  and  cruelty  of  falsehood,  the  loveliness  of 
truth.  Now,  amid  the  wreck,  uprose  the  moral  nature  which 
never  before  had  attained  the  ascendant.  "  But,"  she  thought, 
"  too  late  sin  is  revealed  to  me  in  all  its  deformity,  and  sin- 
defiled,  I  will  not,  cannot  live.  The  mainspring  of  life  is 
broken." 

And  thus  passed  slowly  by  her  hours  in  that  black  despair 
of  which  only  youth  is  capable.  In  older  years  men  suffer 
more  dull  pain,  as  each  sorrow  that  comes  drops  its  leaden 
weight  into  the  past,  and,  similar  features  of  character  bring 
ing  similar  results,  draws  up  the  heavy  burden  buried  in  those 
depths.  But  only  youth  has  energy,  with  fixed,  unwinking 
gaze,  to  contemplate  grief,  to  hold  it  in  the  arms  and  to  the 
heart,  like  a  child  which  makes  it  wretched,  yet  is  indubitably 
its  own. 

The  lady  who  took  charge  of  this  sad  child  had  never 
well  understood  her  before,  but  had  always  looked  on  her  with 
great  tenderness.  And  now  love  seemed  —  when  all  around 
were  in  greatest  distress,  fearing  to  call  in  medical  aid,  fearing 
to  do  without  it  —  to  teach  her  where  the  only  balm  was  to 
be  found  that  could  have  healed  this  wounded  spirit. 

One  night  she  came  in,  bringing  a  calming  draught.  Mari 
ana  was  sitting,  as  usual,  her  hair  loose,  her  dress  the  same 
robe  they  had  put  on  her  at  first,  her  eyes  fixed  vacantly  upon 
the  whited  wall.  To  the  proffers  and  entreaties  of  her  nurse 
she  made  no  reply. 

The  lady  burst  into  tears,  but  Mariana  did  not  seem  even 
to  observe  it. 


MARIANA.  267 

The  lady  then  said,  "  0  my  child,  do  not  despair ;  do  not 
think  that  one  great  fault  can  mar  a  whole  life.  Let  me  trust 
you,  let  me  tell  you  the  griefs  of  my  sad  life.  I  will  tell  to 
you,  Mariana,  what  I  never  expected  to  impart  to  any  one." 

And  so  she  told  her  tale :  it  was  one  of  pain,  of  shame, 
borne,  not  for  herself,  but  for  one  near  and  dear  as  herself. 
Mariana  knew  the  lady  —  knew  the  pride  and  reserve  of  her 
nature.  She  had  often  admired  to  see  how  the  cheek,  lovely, 
but  no  longer  young,  mantled  with  the  deepest  blush  of  youth, 
and  the  blue  eyes  were  cast  down  at  any  little  emotion  :  she 
had  understood  the  proud  sensibility  of  the  character.  She 
fixed  her  eyes  on  those  now  raised  to  hers,  bright  with  fast- 
falling  tears.  She  heard  the  story  to  the  end,  and  then,  with 
out  saying  a  word,  stretched  out  her  hand  for  the  cup. 

She  returned  to  life,  but  it  was  as  one  who  has  passed 
through  the  valley  of  death.  The  heart  of  stone  was  quite 
broken  in  her,  the  fiery  life  fallen  from  flame  to  coal.  When 
her  strength  was  a  little  restored,  she  had  all  her  companions 
summoned,  and  said  to  them,  "  I  deserved  to  die,  but  a  gener 
ous  trust  has  called  me  back  to  life.  I  will  be  worthy  of  it, 
nor  ever  betray  the  truth,  or  resent  injury  more.  Can  you 
forgive  the  past  ?  " 

And  they  not  only  forgave,  but,  with  love  and  earnest  tears, 
clasped  in  their  arms  the  returning  sister.  They  vied  with 
one  another  in  offices  of  humble  love  to  the  humbled  one ; 
and  let  it  be  recorded  as  an  instance  of  the  pure  honor  of 
which  young  hearts  are  capable,  that  these  facts,  known  to 
forty  persons,  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  transpired  beyond  those 
walls. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  Mariana  was  summoned 
home.  She  went  thither  a  wonderfully  instructed  being, 
though  in  ways  that  those  who  had  sent  her  forth  to  learn 
little  dreamed  of. 

Never  was  forgotten  the  vow  of  the  returning  prodigal. 
Mariana  could  not  resent,  could  not  play  false.  The  terrible 


268  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

crisis  which  she  so  early  passed  through  probably  prevented 
the  world  from  hearing  much  of  her.  A  wild  fire  was  tamed 
in  that  hour  of  penitence  at  the  boarding  school  such  as  has 
oftentimes  wrapped  court  and  camp  in  its  destructive  glow. 

But  great  were  the  perils  she  had  yet  to  undergo,  for  she 
was  one  of  those  barks  which  easily  get  beyond  soundings, 
and  ride  not  lightly  on  the  plunging  billow. 

Her  return  to  her  native  climate  seconded  the  effects  of  in 
ward  revolutions.  The  cool  airs  of  the  north  had  exasperated 
nerves  too  susceptible  for  their  tension.  Those  of  the  south 
restored  her  to  a  more  soft  and  indolent  state.  Energy  gave 
place  to  feeling  —  turbulence  to  intensity  of  character. 

At  this  time,  love  was  the  natural  guest ;  and  he  came  to 
her  under  a  form  that  might  have  deluded  one  less  ready  for 
delusion. 

Sylvain  was  a  person  well  proportioned  to  her  lot  in  years, 
family,  and  fortune.  His  personal  beauty  was  not  great,  but 
of  a  noble  dscription.  Repose  marked  his  slow  gesture,  and 
the  steady  gaze  of  his  large  brown  eye ;  but  it  was  a  repose 
that  would  give  way  to  a  blaze  of  energy,  when  the  occasion 
called.  In  his  stature,  expression,  and  heavy  coloring,  he 
might  not  unfitly  be  represented  by  the  great  magnolias  that 
inhabit  the  forests  of  that  climate.  His  voice,  like  every 
thing  about  him,  was  rich  and  soft,  rather  than  sweet  or 
delicate. 

Mariana  no  sooner  knew  him  than  she  loved  ;  and  her  love, 
lovely  as  she  was,  soon  excited  his.  But  0,  it  is  a  curse  to 
woman  to  love  first,  or  most !  In  so  doing  she  reverses  the 
natural  relations ;  and  her  heart  can  never,  never  be  satisfied 
with  what  ensues. 

Mariana  loved  first,  and  loved  most,  for  she  had  most  force 
and  variety  to  love  with.  Sylvain  seemed,  at  first,  to  take 
her  to  himself,  as  the  deep  southern  night  might  some  fair 
star ;  but  it  proved  not  so. 

Mariana  was  a  very  intellectual  being,  and  she  needed  com- 


MARIANA.  269 

panionship.  This  she  could  only  have  with  Sylvain,  in  the 
paths  of  passion  and  action.  Thoughts  he  had  none,  and 
little  delicacy  of  sentiment.  The  gifts  she  loved  to  prepare 
of  such  for  him  he  took  with  a  sweet  but  indolent  smile ;  he 
held  them  lightly,  and  soon  they  fell  from  his  grasp.  He 
loved  to  have  her  near  him,  to  feel  the  glow  and  fragrance  of 
her  nature,  but  cared  not  to  explore  the  little  secret  paths 
whence  that  fragrance  was  collected. 

Mariana  knew  not  this  for  a  long  time.  Loving  so  much, 
she  imagined  all  the  rest ;  and,  where  she  felt  a  blank,  always 
hoped  that  further  communion  would  fill  it  up.  When  she 
found  this  could  never  be,  —  that  there  was  absolutely  a 
whole  province  of  her  being  to  which  nothing  in  his  answered, 
—  she  was  too  deeply  in  love  to  leave  him.  Often,  after  passing 
hours  together  beneath  the  southern  moon,  when,  amid  the 
sweet  intoxication  of  mutual  love,  she  still  felt  the  desolation 
of  solitude,  and  a  repression  of  her  finer  powers,  she  had 
asked  herself,  Can  I  give  him  up  ?  But  the  heart  always 
passionately  answered,  No  !  I  may  be  wretched  with  him,  but 
I  cannot  live  without  him. 

And  the  last  miserable  feeling  of  these  conflicts  was,  that 
if  the  lover  —  soon  to  be  the  bosom  friend  —  could  have 
dreamed  of  these  conflicts,  he  would  have  laughed,  or  else 
been  angry,  even  enough  to  give  her  up. 

Ah,  weakness  of  the  strong !  of  those  strong  only  where 
strength  is  weakness !  Like  others,  she  had  the  decisions  of 
life  to  make  before  she  had  light  by  which  to  make  them. 
Let  none  condemn  her.  Those  who  have  not  erred  as  fatally 
should  thank  the  guardian  angel  who  gave  them  more  time  to 
prepare  for  judgment,  but  blame  no  children  who  thought  at 
arm's  length  to  find  the  moon.  Mariana,  with  a  heart  capa 
ble  of  highest  Eros,  gave  it  to  one  who  knew  love  only  as  a 
flower  or  plaything,  and  bound  her  heartstrings  to  one  who 
parted  his  as  lightly  as  the  ripe  fruit  leaves  the  bough.  The 
sequel  could  not  fail.  Many  console  themselves  for  the  one 
23* 


270  LIFE   WITHOUT    AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

great  mistake  with  their  children,  with  the  world.  This  was 
not  possible  to  Mariana.  A  few  months  of  domestic  life 
she  still  was  almost  happy.  But  Sylvain  then  grew  tired. 
He  wanted  business  and  the  world:  of  these  she  had  no 
knowledge,  for  them  no  faculties.  He  wanted  in  her  the 
head  of  his  house;  she  to  make  her  heart  his  home.  No 
compromise  was  possible  between  natures  of  such  unequal 
poise,  and  which  had  met  only  on  one  or  two  points.  Through 
all  its  stages  she 

"felt 

The  agonizing  sense 
Of  seeing  love  from  passion  melt 

Into  indifference ; 
The  fearful  shame,  that,  day  by  day, 

Burns  onward,  still  to  burn, 
To  have  thrown  her  precious  heart  away, 

And  met  this  black  return," 

till  death  at  last  closed  the  scene.  Not  that  she  died  of  one 
downright  blow  on  the  heart.  That  is  not  the  way  such  cases 
proceed.  I  cannot  detail  all  the  symptoms,  for  I  was  not 
there  to  watch  them,  and  aunt  Z.,  who  described  them,  was 
neither  so  faithful  an  observer  or  narrator  as  I  have  shown 
myself  in  the  school-day  passages  ;  but,  generally,  they  were 
as  follows. 

Sylvain  wanted  to  go  into  the  world,  or  let  it  into  his  house. 
Mariana  consented;  but,  with  an  unsatisfied  heart,  and  no 
lightness  of  character,  she  played  her  part  ill  there.  The  sort 
of  talent  and  facility  she  had  displayed  in  early  days  were 
not  the  least  like  what  is  called  out  in  the  social  world  by  the 
desire  to  please  and  to  shine.  Her  excitement  had  been 
muse-like  —  that  of  the  improvisatrice,  whose  kindling  fancy 
seeks  to  create  an  atmosphere  round  it,  and  makes  the  chain 
through  which  to  set  free  its  electric  sparks.  That  had  been 
a  time  of  wild  and  exuberant  life.  After  her  character  became 


MARIANA.  271 

more  tender  and  concentrated,  strong  affection  or  a  pure 
enthusiasm  might  still  have  called  out  beautiful  talents  in  her. 
But  in  the  first  she  was  utterly  disappointed.  The  second 
was  not  roused  within  her  mind.  She  did  not  expand  into 
various  life,  and  remained  unequal ;  sometimes  too  passive, 
sometimes  too  ardent,  and  not  sufficiently  occupied  with 
what  occupied  those  around  her  to  come  on  the  same  level 
with  them  and  embellish  their  hours. 

Thus  she  lost  ground  daily  with  her  husband,  who,  com 
paring  her  with  the  careless  shining  dames  of  society,  wondered 
why  he  had  found  her  so  charming  in  solitude. 

At  intervals,  when  they  were  left  alone,  Mariana  wanted 
to  open  her  heart,  to  tell  the  thoughts  of  her  mind.  She  was 
so  conscious  of  secret  riches  within  herself,  that  sometimes  it 
seemed,  could  she  but  reveal  a  glimpse  of  them  to  the  eye  of 
Sylvain,  he  would  be  attracted  near  her  again,  and  take  a 
path  where  they  could  walk  hand  in  hand.  Sylvain,  in  these 
intervals,  wanted  an  indolent  repose.  His  home  was  his 
castle.  He  wanted  no  scenes  too  exciting  there.  Light 
jousts  and  plays  were  well  enough,  but  no  grave  encounters. 
He  liked  to  lounge,  to  sing,  to  read,  to  sleep.  In  fine,  Sylvain 
became  the  kind  but  preoccupied  husband,  Mariana  the 
solitary  and  wretched  wife.  He  was  off,  continually,  with  his 
male  companions,  on  excursions  or  affairs  of  pleasure.  At 
home  Mariana  found  that  neither  her  books  nor  music  would 
console  her. 

She  was  of  too  strong  a  nature  to  yield  without  a  struggle 
to  so  dull  a  fiend  as  despair.  She  looked  into  other  hearts, 
seeking  whether  she  could  there  find  such  home  as  an  orphan 
asylum  may  afford.  This  she  did  rather  because  the  chance 
came  to  her,  and  it  seemed  unfit  not  to  seize  the  proffered 
plank,  than  in  hope ;  for  she  was  not  one  to  double  her  stakes, 
but  rather  with  Cassandra  power  to  discern  early  the  sure 
course  of  the  game.  And  Cassandra  whispered  that  she  was 
one  of  those 

"  Whom  men  love  not,  but  yet  regret ;  " 


272  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

and  so  it  proved.  Just  as  in  her  childish  days,  though  in  a 
different  form,  it  happened  betwixt  her  and  these  companions. 
She  could  not  be  content  to  receive  them  quietly,  but  was 
stimulated  to  throw  herself  too  much  into  the  tie,  into  the 
hour,  till  she  filled  it  too  full  for  them.  Like  Fortunio,  who 
sought  to  do  homage  to  his  friends  by  building  a  fire  of  cinna 
mon,  not  knowing  that  its  perfume  would  be  too  strong  for 
their  endurance,  so  did  Mariana.  What  she  wanted  to  tell 
they  did  not  wish  to  hear ;  a  little  had  pleased,  so  much  over 
powered,  and  they  preferred  the  free  air  of  the  street,  even, 
to  the  cinnamon  perfume  of  her  palace. 

However,  this  did  not  signify ;  had  they  staid,  it  would  not 
have  availed  her.  It  was  a  nobler  road,  a  higher  aim,  she 
needed  now ;  this  did  not  become  clear  to  her. 

She  lost  her  appetite,  she  fell  sick,  had  fever.  Sylvain  was 
alarmed,  nursed  her  tenderly ;  she  grew  better.  Then  his 
care  ceased ;  he  saw  not  the  mind's  disease,  but  left  her  to  rise 
into  health,  and  recover  the  tone  of  her  spirits,  as  she  might. 
More  solitary  than  ever,  she  tried  to  raise  herself;  but  she 
knew  not  yet  enough.  The  weight  laid  upon  her  young  life 
was  a  little  too  heavy  for  it.  One  long  day  she  passed  alone, 
and  the  thoughts  and  presages  came  too  thick  for  her  strength. 
She  knew  not  what  to  do  with  them,  relapsed  into  fever,  and 
died. 

Notwithstanding  this  weakness,  I  must  ever  think  of  her  as 
a  fine  sample  of  womanhood,  born  to  shed  light  and  life  on 
some  palace  home.  Had  she  known  more  of  God  and  the 
universe,  she  would  not  have  given  way  where  so  many  have 
conquered.  But  peace  be  with  her ;  she  now,  perhaps,  has 
entered  into  a  larger  freedom,  which  is  knowledge.  With  her 
died  a  great  interest  in  life  to  me.  Since  her  I  have  never 
seen  a  Bandit's  Bride.  She,  indeed,  turned  out  to  be  only  a 
merchant's.  Sylvain  is  married  again  to  a  fair  and  laughing 
girl,  who  will  not  die,  probably,  till  their  marriage  grows  a 
"  golden  marriage." 


MARIANA.  273 

Aunt  Z.  had  with  her  some  papers  of  Mariana's,  which 
faintly  shadow  forth  the  thoughts  that  engaged  her  in  the  last 
days.  One  of  these  seems  to  have  been  written  when  some 
faint  gleam  had  been  thrown  across  the  path  only  to  make 
its  darkness  more  visible.  It  seems  to  have  been  suggested 
by  remembrance  of  the  beautiful  ballad,  Helen  of  Kirconnel 
Lee,  which  once  she  loved  to  recite,  and  in  tones  that  would 
not  have  sent  a  chill  to  the  heart  from  which  it  came. 

"  Death 

Opens  her  sweet  white  arms,  and  whispers,  Peace ; 
Come,  say  thy  sorrows  in  this  bosom !     This 
Will  never  close  against  thee,  and  my  heart, 
Though  cold,  cannot  be  colder  much  than  man's." 

4 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

"I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies." 

A  lover  in  the  times  of  old, 
Thus  vents  his  grief  in  lonely  sighs, 

And  hot  tears  from  a  bosom  cold. 

But,  mourner  for  thy  martyred  love, 

Couldst  thou  but  know  what  hearts  must  fee]> 

Where  no  sweet  recollections  move, 
Whose  tears  a  desert  fount  reveal ! 

When  "  in  thy  arms  bird  Helen  fell," 
She  died,  sad  man,  she  died  for  thee ; 

Nor  could  the  films  of  death  dispel 
Her  loving  eye's  sweet  radiancy. 

Thou  wert  beloved,  and  she  had  loved, 
Till  death  alone  the  whole  could  tell ; 

Death  every  shade  of  doubt  removed, 
And  steeped  the  star  in  its  cold  well. 


274  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul 
Relies  —  earth  has  no  more  to  give ; 

Who  wholly  loves  has  known  the  whole ; 
The  wholly  loved  doth  truly  live. 

But  some,  sad  outcasts  from  this  prize, 
Do  wither  to  a  lonely  grave  ; 

All  hearts  their  hidden  love  despise, 
And  leave  them  to  the  whelming  wave. 

They  heart  to  heart  have  never  pressed, 
Nor  hands  in  holy  pledge  have  given, 

By  father's  love  were  ne'er  caressed, 
Nor  in  a  mother's  eye  saw  heaven. 

A  flowerless  and  fruitless  tree, 

A  dried-up  stream,  a  mateless  bird, 

They  live,  yet  never  living  be, 

They  die,  their  music  all  unheard. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
For  there  I  could  not  be  alone ; 

But  now,  when  this  dull  body  dies, 
The  spirit  still  will  make  its  moan. 

Love  passed  me  by,  nor  touched  my  brow ; 

Life  would  not  yield  one  perfect  boon ; 
And  all  too  late  it  calls  me  now  — 

O,  all  too  late,  and  all  too  soon. 

.'  4| 

If  thou  couldst  the  dark  riddle  read 

Which  leaves  this  dart  within  my  breast, 

Then  might  I  think  thou  lov'st  indeed, 
Then  were  the  whole  to  thee  confest. 


MARIANA.  275 

Father,  they  will  not  take  me  home ; 

To  the  poor  child  no  heart  is  free ; 
In  sleet  and  snow  all  night  I  roam ; 

Father,  was  this  decreed  by  thee  ? 

I  will  not  try  another  door, 

To  seek  what  I  have  never  found  ; 
Now,  till  the  very  last  is  o'er, 

Upon  the  earth  I'll  wander  round. 

I  will  not  hear  the  treacherous  call 

That  bids  me  stay  and  rest  a  while, 
For  I  have  found  that,  one  and  all, 

They  seek  me  for  a  prey  and  spoil. 

They  are  not  bad ;  I  know  it  well ; 

I  know  they  know  not  what  they  do ; 
They  are  the  tools  of  the  dread  spell 

Which  the  lost  lover  must  pursue. 

In  temples  sometimes  she  may  rest, 

In  lonely  groves,  away  from  men, 
There  bend  the  head,  by  heats  distressed, 

Nor  be  by  blows  awoke  again. 

Nature  is  kind,  and  God  is  kind ; 

And,  if  she  had  not  had  a  heart, 
Only  that  great  discerning  mind, 

She  might  have  acted  well  her  part. 

But  O  this  thirst,  that  nought  can  fill, 

Save  those  unfounden  waters  free ! 
The  angel  of  my  life  must  still 

And  soothe  me  in  eternity ! 


276  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

It  marks  the  defect  in  the  position  of  woman  that  one  like 
Mariana  should  have  found  reason  to  write  thus.  To  a  man 
of  equal  power,  equal  sincerity,  no  more  !  —  many  resources 
would  have  presented  themselves.  He  would  not  have  needed 
to  seek,  he  would  have  been  called  by  life,  and  not  permitted 
to  be  quite  wrecked  through  the  affections  only.  But  svuch 
women  as  Mariana  are  often  lost,  unless  they  meet  some 
man  of  sufficiently  great  soul  to  prize  them. 

Van  Artevelde's  Elena,  though  in  her  individual  nature 
unlike  my  Mariana,  is  like  her  in  a  mind  whose  large  im 
pulses  are  disproportioned  to  the  persons  and  occasions  she 
meets,  and  which  carry  her  beyond  those  reserves  which  mark 
the  appointed  lot  of  woman.  But,  when  she  met  Van  Arte- 
velde,  he  was  too  great  not  to  revere  her  rare  nature,  without 
regard  to  the  stains  and  errors  of  its  past  history ;  great 
enough  to  receive  her  entirely,  and  make  a  new  life  for  her ; 
man  enough  to  be  a  lover !  But  as  such  men  come  not  so 
often  as  once  an  age,  their  presence  should  not  be  absolutely 
needed  to  sustain  life. 


SUNDAY  MEDITATIONS  ON  VARIOUS  TEXTS. 
MEDITATION  FIRST. 

"And  Jesus,  answering,  said  unto  them,  Have  faith  in  God." — Mark 
xi.  22. 

O,  DIRECTION  most  difficult  to  follow !  O,  counsel  most 
mighty  of  import !  Beauteous  harmony  to  the  purified  soul ! 
Mysterious,  confounding  as  an  incantation  to  those  yet  grop 
ing  and  staggering  amid  the  night,  the  fog,  the  chaos  of  their 
own  inventions  ! 

Yes,  this  is  indeed  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  all  knowl 
edge  and  virtue  ;  the  way  and  the  goal ;  the  enigma  and  its 
solution.  The  soul  cannot  prove  to  herself  the  existence  of  a 
God ;  she  cannot  prove  her  own  immortality ;  she  cannot 
prove  the  beauty  of  virtue,  or  the  deformity  of  vice  ;  her  own 
consciousness,  the  first  ground  of  this  belief,  cannot  be  com 
passed  by  the  reason,  that  inferior  faculty  which  the  Deity 
gave  for  practical,  temporal  purposes  only.  This  conscious 
ness  is  divine  ;  it  is  part  of  the  Deity  ;  through  this  alone  we 
sympathize  witji  the  imperishable,  the  infinite,  the  nature  of 
things.  Were  reason  commensurate  with  this  part  of  our 
intellectual  life,  what  should  we  do  with  the  things  of  time  ? 
The  leaves  and  buds  of  earth  would  wither  beneath  the  sun 
of  our  intelligence  ;  its  crags  and  precipices  would  be  levelled 
before  the  mighty  torrent  of  our  will ;  all  its  dross  would  crum 
ble  to  ashes  under  the  fire  of  our  philosophy. 

God  willed  it  otherwise  ;  WHY,  who  can  guess  ?  Why  this 
planet,  with  its  tormenting  limitations  of  space  and  time,  was 
24  (277) 


278  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

ever  created, — why  the  soul  was  cased  in  this  clogging,  stifling 
integument,  (which,  while  it  conveys  to  the  soul,  in  a  round 
about  way,  knowledge  which  she  might  obviously  acquire 
much  better  without  its  aid,  tempts  constantly  to  vice  and 
indolence,  suggesting  sordid  wants,  and  hampering  or  hinder 
ing  thought,)  —  I  pretend  not  to  say.  Let  others  toil  to  stifle 
sad  distrust  a  thousand  ways.  Let  them  satisfy  themselves 
by  reasonings  on  the  nature  of  free  agency  ;  let  them  imagine 
it  was  impossible  men  should  be  purified  to  angels,  except  by 
resisting  the  temptations  of  guilt  and  crime ;  let  them  be 
reasonably  content  to  feel  that 

"  Faith  conquers  in  no  easy  war ; 

By  toil  alone  the  prize  is  won  ; 
The  grape  dissolves  not  in  the  cup  — 

Wine  from  the  crushing  press  must  run ; 
And  would  a  spirit  heavenward  go, 
A  heart  must  break  in  death  below." 

Why  an  omnipotent  Deity  should  permit  evil,  either  as 
necessary  to  produce  good,  or  incident  to  laws  framed  for  its 
production,  must  remain  a  mystery  to  me.  True,  we  cannot 
conceive  how  the  world  could  have  been  ordered  differently, 
and  because  we,  —  beings  half  of  clay ;  beings  bred  amid,  and 
nurtured  upon  imperfection  and  decay ;  beings  who  must 
not  only  sleep  and  eat,  but  pass  the  greater  part  of  their  tem 
poral  day  in  procuring  the  means  to  do  so,  —  because  WE, 
creatures  so  limited  and  blind,  so  weak  of  thought  and  dull 
of  hearing,  cannot  conceive  how  evil  could  have  been  dis 
pensed  with,  those  among  us  who  are  styled  wise  and  learned 
have  thought  fit  to  assume  that  the  Infinite,  the  Omnipotent, 
could  not  have  found  a  way  !  "  Could  not,"  "  evil  must  be 
incident "  —  terms  invented  to  express  the  thoughts  or  deeds 
of  the  children  of  dust.  Shall  they  be  applied  to  the  Omnipo 
tent  ?  Is  a  confidence  in  the  goodness  of  God  more  trying 
to  faith,  than  the  belief  that  a  God  exists,  to  whom  these 
words,  transcending  our  powers  of  conception,  apply  ?  O,  no, 


SUNDAY  MEDITATIONS   ON   VARIOUS  TEXTS.         279 

no  !  "ffave  faith  in  God !  "  Strive  to  expand  thy  soul  to 
the  feeling  of  wisdom,  of  beauty,  of  goodness  ;  live,  and  act 
as  if  these  were  the  necessary  elements  of  things  ;  "  live  for 
thy  faith,  and  thou  shalt  behold  it  living."  In  another  world 
God  will  repay  thy  trust,  and  "  reveal  to  thee  the  first 
causes  of  things  which  Leibnitz  could  not,"  as  the  queen  of 
Prussia  said,  when  she  was  dying.  Socrates  has  declared  that 
the  belief  in  the  soul's  immortality  is  so  delightful,  so  elevat 
ing,  so  purifying,  that  even  were  it  not  the  truth,  "  we  should 
daily  strive  to  enchant  ourselves  with  it."  And  thus  with 
faith  in  wisdom  and  goodness,  —  that  is  to  say,  in  God,  —  the 
earthquake-defying,  rock-foundation  of  our  hopes  is  laid ;  the 
sun-greeting  dome  which  crowns  the  most  superb  palace  of 
our  knowledge  is  builded.  A  noble  and  accomplished  man, 
of  a  later  day,  has  said,  "To  credit  ordinary  and  visible 
objects  is  not  faith,  but  persuasion.  I  bless  myself,  and  am 
thankful,  that  I  lived  not  in  the  days  of  miracles,  that  I  never 
saw  Christ,  nor  his  disciples  ;  then  had  my  faith  been  thrust 
upon  me,  nor  could  I  enjoy  that  greater  blessing  pronounced 
upon  those  who  believe  yet  saw  not." 

I  cannot  speak  thus  proudly  and  heartily.  I  find  the  world 
of  sense  strong  enough  against  the  intellectual  and  celestial 
world.  It  is  easy  to  believe  in  our  passionless  moments,  or 
in  those  when  earth  would  seem  too  dark  without  the  guiding 
star  of  faith ;  but  to  live  in  faith,  not  sometimes  to  feel,  but 
always  to  have  it,  is  difficult.  Were  faith  ever  with  us,  how 
steady  would  be  our  energy,  how  equal  our  ambition,  how 
calmly  bright  our  hopes  !  The  darts  of  envy  would  be  blunted, 
the  cup  of  disappointment  lose  its  bitterness,  the  impassioned 
eagerness  of  the  heart  be  stilled,  tears  would  fall  like  holy  dew, 
and  blossoms  fragrant  with  celestial  May  ensue. 

But  the  prayer  of  most  of  us  must  be,  "  Lord,  we  believe 
—  help  thou  our  unbelief !  "  These  are  to  me  the  most  sig 
nificant  words  of  Holy  Writ.  I  will  to  believe ;  O,  guide, 
support,  strengthen,  and  soothe  me  to  do  so  !  Lord,  grant  me 


280  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

to  believe  firmly,  and  to  act  nobly.  Let  me  not  be  tempted  to 
waste  my  time,  and  weaken  my  powers,  by  attempts  to  soar 
on  feeble  pinions  "  where  angels  bashful  look."  In  faith  let 
me  interpret  the  universe  ! 


MEDITATION  SECOND. 

"  Why  is  light  given  to  a  man  whose  way  is  hid,  and  whom  God  hath 
hedged  in  ?  "  —  Job  iii.  23. 

This  pathetic  inquiry  rises  from  all  parts  of  the  globe,  from 
millions  of  human  souls,  to  that  heaven  from  whence  the  light 
proceeds.  From  the  young,  full  of  eager  aspirations  after 
virtue  and  glory ;  with  the  glance  of  the  falcon  to  descry  the 
high-placed  aim,  —  but  ah !  the  wing  of  the  wren  to  reach  it ! 
The  young  enthusiast  must  often  weep.  His  heart  glows,  his 
eye  sparkles  as  he  reads  of  the  youthful  triumphs  of  a  Pom- 
pey,  the  sublime  devotion  of  an  Agis  ;  *  he  shuts  the  book,  he 
looks  around  him  for  a  theatre  whereon  to  do  likewise  — 
petty  pursuits,  mean  feelings,  and  trifling  pleasures  meet  his 
eye  ;  the  cold  breeze  of  selfishness  has  nipped  every  flower ; 
the  dull  glow  of  prosaic  life  overpowers  the  beauties  of  the 
landscape.  He  plunges  into  the  unloved  pursuit,  or  some  de 
spised  amusement,  to  soothe  that  day's  impatience,  and  wakes 
on  the  morrow,  crying,  "  I  have  lost  a  day ;  and  where,  where 
shall  I  now  turn  my  steps  to  find  the  destined  path  ?  "  The 
gilded  image  of  some  petty  victory  holds  forth  a  talisman 
which  seems  to  promise  him  sure  tokens.  He  rushes  for 
ward;  the  swords  of  foes  and  rivals  bar  the  way;  the 
ground  trembles  and  gives  way  beneath  his  feet ;  rapid  streams, 
unseen  at  a  distance,  roll  between  him  and  the  object  of  his 
pursuit ;  faint,  giddy  and  exhausted  by  the  loss  of  his  best 
blood,  he  reaches  the  goal,  seizes  the  talisman,  his  eyes  de- 

[*  Agis,  king  of  Sparta,  the  fourth  of  that  name.  "  One  of  the  most 
beautiful  characters  of  antiquity."  —  ED.] 


SUNDAY  MEDITATIONS    ON  VARIOUS  TEXTS.  281 

vour  the  inscription  —  alas !  the  characters  are  unknown  to 
him.  He  looks  back  for  some  friend  who  might  aid  him,  — 
his  friends  are  whelmed  beneath  the  torrent,  or  have  turned 
back  disheartened.  He  must  struggle  onward  alone  and  igno 
rant  as  before ;  yet  in  his  wishes  there  is  light. 

Another  is  attracted  by  a  lovely  phantom;  with  airy 
step  she  precedes  him,  holding,  as  he  thinks,  in  her  upward- 
pointing  hand  the  faithful  needle  which  might  point  him  to  the 
pole-star  of  his  wishes.  Unwearied  he  follows,  imploring  her 
in  most  moving  terms  to  pause  but  a  moment  and  let  him 
take  her  hand.  Heedless  she  flits  onward  to  some  hopeless 
desert,  where  she  pauses  only  to  turn  to  her  unfortunate  cap 
tive  the  malicious  face  of  a  very  Morgana. 

The  old,  —  O  their  sighs  are  deeper  still !  They  have 
wandered  far,  toiled  much ;  the  true  light  is  now  shown  them. 
Ah,  why  was  it  reflected  so  falsely  through  "  life's  many-col 
ored  dome  of  painted  glass"  upon  their  youthful,  anxious 
gaze  ?  And  now  the  path  they  came  by  is  hedged  in  by  new 
circumstances  against  the  feet  of  others,  and  its  devious 
course  vainly  mapped  in  their  memories ;  should  the  light  of 
their  example  lead  others  into  the  same  track,  these  unlucky 
followers  will  vainly  seek  an  issue.  They  attempt  to  unroll 
their  charts  for  the  use  of  their  children,  and  their  children's 
children.  They  feed  the  dark  lantern  of  wisdom  with  the  oil 
of  experience,  and  hold  it  aloft  over  the  declivity  up  which 
these  youth  are  blundering,  in  vain ;  some  fall,  misled  by  the 
flickering  light ;  others  seek  by-paths,  along  which  they  hope 
to  be  guided  by  suns  or  moons  of  their  own.  All  meet  at 
last,  only  to  bemoan  or  sneer  together.  How  many  strive 
with  feverish  zeal  to  paint  on  the  clouds  of  outward  life  the 
hues  of  their  own  souls ;  what  do  not  these  suffer  ?  What 
baffling,  —  what  change  in  the  atmosphere  on  which  they  de 
pend,  —  yet  not  in  vain  !  Something  they  realize,  something 
they  grasp,  something  (0,  how  unlike  the  theme  of  their 
hope  !)  they  have  created.  A  transient  glow,  a  deceitful  thrill, 
24* 


282  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

—  these  be  the  blisses  of  mortals.  Yet  have  these  given 
birth  to  noble  deeds,  and  thoughts  worthy  to  be  recorded  by 
the  pens  of  angels  on  the  tablets  of  immortality. 

And  this,  O  man !  is  thy  only  solace  in  those  paroxysms 
of  despair  which  must  result  to  the  yet  eager  heart  from  the 
vast  disproportion  between  our  perceptions  and  our  exhibition 
of  those  perceptions.  Seize  on  all  the  twigs  that  may  help 
thee  in  thine  ascent,  though  the  thorns  upon  them  rend  thee. 
Toil  ceaselessly  towards  the  Source  of  light,  and  remember  that 
he  who  thus  eloquently  lamented  found  that,  although  far  worse 
than  his  dark  presentiments  had  pictured  came  upon  him, 
though  vainly  he  feared  and  trembled,  and  there  was  no  safety 
for  him,  yet  his  sighings  came  before  his  meat,  and,  happy  in 
their  recollection,  he  found  at  last  that  danger  and  imprison 
ment  are  but  for  a  season,  and  that  God  is  good,  as  he  is 
great. 


APPEAL   FOR  AN  ASYLUM   FOR  DISCHARGED 
FEMALE    CONVICTS. 

THE  ladies  of  the  Prison  Association  have  been  from  time 
to  time  engaged  in  the  endeavor  to  procure  funds  for  establish 
ing  this  asylum.*  They  have  met,  thus  far,  with  little  suc 
cess  ;  but  touched  by  the  position  of  several  women,  who,  on 
receiving  their  discharge,  were  anxiously  waiting  in  hope 
there  would  be  means  provided  to  save  them  from  return  to 
their  former  suffering  and  polluted  life,  they  have  taken  a 
house,  and  begun  their  good  work,  in  faith  that  Heaven  must 
take  heed  that  such  an  enterprise  may  not  fail,  and  touch  the 
hearts  of  men  to  aid  it. 

They  have  taken  a  house,  and  secured  the  superintendence 
of  an  excellent  matron.  There  are  already  six  women  under 
her  care.  But  this  house  is  unprovided  with  furniture,  or  the 
means  of  securing  food  for  body  and  mind  to  these  unfortu 
nates,  during  the  brief  novitiate  which  gives  them  so  much  to 
learn  and  unlearn. 

The  object  is  to  lend  a  helping  hand  to  the  many  who  show 
a  desire  of  reformation,  but  have  hitherto  been  inevitably  re 
pelled  into  infamy  by  the  lack  of  friends  to  find  them  honest 
employment,  and  a  temporary  refuge  till  it  can  be  procured. 
Efforts  will  be  made  to  instruct  them  how  to  break  up  bad 
habits,  and  begin  a  healthy  course  for  body  and  mind. 

The  house  has  in  it  scarcely  any  thing.  It  is  a  true  Laza 
rus  establishment,  asking  for  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  the 
rich  man's  table.  Old  furniture  would  be  acceptable,  clothes, 
books  that  are  no  longer  needed  by  their  owners. 

[*  In  New  York.  —ED.] 


284  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

This  statement  we  make  in  appealing  to  the  poor,  though 
they  are,  usually,  the  most  generous.  Not  that  they  are, 
originally,  better  than  the  rich,  but  circumstances  have  fitted 
them  to  appreciate  the  misfortunes,  the  trials,  the  wrongs  that 
beset  those  a  little  lower  than  themselves.  But  we  have  seen 
too  many  instances  where  those  who  were  educated  in  luxury 
would  cast  aside  sloth  and  selfishness  with  eagerness  when 
once  awakened  to  better  things,  not  to  hope  in  appealing  to 
the  rich  also. 

And  to  all  we  appeal :  to  the  poor,  who  will  know  how  to 
sympathize  with  those  who  are  not  only  poor  but  degraded, 
diseased,  likely  to  be  hurried  onward  to  a  shameful,  hopeless 
death  ;  to  the  rich,  to  equalize  the  advantages  of  which  they 
have  received  more  than  their  share  ;  to  men,  to  atone  for 
wrongs  inflicted  by  men  on  that  "  weaker  sex,"  who  should, 
they  say,  be  soft,  confiding,  dependent  on  them  for  protection ; 
to  women,  to  feel  for  those  who  have  not  been  guarded  either 
by  social  influence  or  inward  strength  from  that  first  mistake 
which  the  opinion  of  the  world  makes  irrevocable  for  women 
alone.  Since  their  danger  is  so  great,  their  fall  so  remediless, 
let  mercies  be  multiplied  when  there  is  a  chance  of  that  par 
tial  restoration  which  society  at  present  permits. 

In  New  York  we  have  come  little  into  contact  with  that 
class  of  society  which  has  a  surplus  of  leisure  at  command ; 
but  in  other  cities  we  have  found  in  their  ranks  many  —  some 
men,  more  women  —  who  wanted  only  a  decided  object  and 
clear  light  to  fill  the  noble  office  of  disinterested  educators 
and  guardians  to  their  less  fortunate  fellows.  It  has  been  our 
happiness,  in  not  a  few  instances,  by  merely  apprising  such 
persons  of  what  was  to  be  done,  to  rouse  that  generous  spirit 
which  relieved  them  from  ennui  and  a  gradual  ossification  of 
the  whole  system,  and  transferred  them  into  a  thoughtful, 
sympathetic,  and  beneficent  existence.  Such,  no  doubt,  are 
near  us  here,  if  we  could  but  know  it.  A  ooet  writes  thus 
of  the  cities :  — 


ASYLUM  FOR  DISCHARGED  FEMALE  CONVICTS.      285 

Cities  of  proud  hotels, 

Houses  of  rich  and  great, 
A  stack  of  smoking  chimneys, 

A  roof  of  frozen  slate  ! 
It  cannot  conquer  folly, 

Time,  and  space,  conquering  steam, 
And  the  light,  outspeeding  telegraph, 

Bears  nothing  on  its  beam. 

The  politics  are  base, 

The  letters  do  not  cheer, 
And  'tis  far  in  the  deeps  of  history, 

The  voice  that  speaketh  clear. 
Trade  and  the  streets  insnare  us, 

Our  bodies  are  weak  and  worn, 
We  plot  and  corrupt  each  other, 

And  we  despoil  the  unborn. 

Yet  there  in  the  parlor  sits 

Some  figure  of  noble  guise, 
Our  angel  in  a  stranger's  form, 

Or  woman's  pleading  eyes. 
Or  only  a  flashing  sunbeam 

In  at  the  window  pane, 
Or  music  pours  on  mortals 

Its  beautiful  disdain. 

These  "  pleading  eyes,"  these  u  angels  in  strangers'  forms," 
we  meet,  or  seem  to  meet,  as  we  pass  through  the  thorough 
fares  of  this  great  city.  We  do  not  know  their  names  or 
homes.  We  cannot  go  to  those  still  and  sheltered  abodes  and 
tell  them  the  tales  that  would  be  sure  to  awaken  the  heart  to 
a  deep  and  active  interest  in  this  matter.  But  should  these 
words  meet  their  eyes,  we  would  say,  "  Have  you  entertained 
your  leisure  hours  with  the  Mysteries  of  Paris,  or  the 


286  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

pathetic  story  of  Violet  Woodville  ?  "  Then  you  have  some 
idea  how  innocence,  worthy  of  the  brightest  planet,  may  be 
betrayed  by  want,  or  by  the  most  generous  tenderness;  how 
the  energies  of  a  noble  reformation  may  lie  hidden  beneath 
the  ashes  of  a  long  burning,  as  in  the  case  of  "  La  Louve." 
You  must  have  felt  that  yourselves  are  not  better,  only  more 
protected  children  of  God  than  these.  Do  you  want  to  link 
these  fictions,  which  have  made  you  weep,  with  facts  around 
you  where  your  pity  might  be  of  use  ?  Go  to  the  Peniten 
tiary  at  Blackwell's  Island.  You  may  be  repelled  by  seeing 
those  who  are  in  health,  while  at  work  together,  keeping  up 
one  another's  careless  spirit  and  effrontery  by  bad  association. 
But  see  them  in  the  Hospital,  —  where  the  worn  features  of 
the  sick  show  the  sad  ruins  of  past  loveliness,  past  gentleness. 
See  in  the  eyes  of  the  nurses  the  woman's  spirit  still,  so 
kindly,  so  inspiring.  See  those  little  girls  huddled  in  a 
corner,  their  neglected  dress  and  hair  contrasting  with  some 
ribbon  of  cherished  finery  held  fast  in  a  childish  hand.  Think 
what  "  sweet  seventeen  "  was  to  you,  and  what  it  is  to  them, 
and  see  if  you  do  not  wish  to  aid  in  any  enterprise  that  gives 
them  a  chance  of  better  days.  We  assume  no  higher  claim 
for  this  enterprise.  The  dreadful  social  malady  which  creates 
the  need  of  it,  is  one  that  imperatively  demands  deep-search 
ing,  preventive  measures ;  it  is  beyond  cure.  But,  here  and 
there,  some  precious  soul  may  be  saved  from  unwilling  sin, 
unutterable  woe.  Is  not  the  hope  to  save  here  and  there  one 
worthy  of  great  and  persistent  sacrifice  ? 


THE    RICH    MAN. 

AN  IDEAL  SKETCH. 

IN  my  walks  through  this  city,  the  sight  of  spacious  and 
expensive  dwelling-houses  now  in  process  of  building,  has 
called  up  the  following  reverie. 

All  benevolent  persons,  whether  deeply-thinking  on,  or 
deeply-feeling,  the  woes,  difficulties,  and  dangers  of  our  pres 
ent  social  system,  are  agreed  that  either  great  improvements 
are  needed,  or  a  thorough  reform. 

Those  who  desire  the  latter  include  the  majority  of  think 
ers.  And  we  ourselves,  both  from  personal  observation  and 
the  testimony  of  others,  are  convinced  that  a  radical  reform  is 
needed ;  not  a  reform  that  rejects  the  instruction  of  the  past, 
or  asserts  that  God  and  man  have  made  mistakes  till  now. 
We  believe  that  all  past  developments  have  taken  place 
under  natural  and  necessary  laws,  and  that  the  Paternal 
Spirit  has  at  no  period  forgotten  his  children,  but  granted  to 
all  generations  and  all  ages  their  chances  of  good  to  balance 
inevitable  ills.  We  prize  the  past ;  we  recognize  it  as  our 
parent,  our  nurse,  and  our  teacher ;  and  we  know  that  for  a 
time  the  new  wine  required  the  old  bottles,  to  prevent  its 
being  spilled  upon  the  ground. 

Still  we  feel  that  the  time  is  come  which  not  only  permits, 
but  demands,  a  wider  statement  and  a  nobler  action.  The 
aspect  of  society  presents  mighty  problems,  which  must  be 
solved  by  the  soul  of  man  "  divinely-intending  "  itself  to  the 
task,  or  all  will  become  worse  instead  of  better,  and  ere  long 
the  social  fabric  totter  to  decay. 

(287) 


288  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Yet  while  the  new  measures  are  ripening,  and  the  new 
men  educating,  there  is  still  room  on  the  old  platform  for 
some  worthy  action.  It  is  possible  for  a  man  of  piety,  reso 
lution,  and  good  sense,  to  lead  a  life  which,  if  not  expansive, 
generous,  graceful,  and  pure  from  suspicion  and  contempt,  is 
yet  not  entirely  unworthy  of  his  position  as  the  child  of  God, 
and  ruler  of  a  planet. 

Let  us  take,  then,  some  men  just  where  they  find  them 
selves,  in  a  mixed  state  of  society,  where,  in  quantity,  we  are 
free  to  say  the  bad  preponderates,  though  the  good,  from  its 
superior  energy  in  quality,  may  finally  redeem  and  efface  its 
plague-spots. 

Our  society  is  ostensibly  under  the  rule  of  the  precepts  of 
Jesus.  We  will  then  suppose  a  youth  sufficiently  imbued 
with  these,  to  understand  what  is  conveyed  under  the  para 
bles  of  the  unjust  steward,  and  the  prodigal  son,  as  well  as 
the  denunciations  of  the  opulent  Jews.  He  understands  that 
it  is  needful  to  preserve  purity  and  teachableness,  since  of 
those  most  like  little  children  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven ; 
mercy  for  the  sinner,  since  there  is  peculiar  joy  in  heaven  at 
the  salvation  of  such ;  perpetual  care  for  the  unfortunate, 
since  only  to  the  just  steward  shall  his  possessions  be  par 
doned.  Imbued  with  such  love,  the  young  man  joins  the 
active, —  we  will  say,  in  choosing  an  instance,  —  joins  the 
commercial  world. 

His  views  of  his  profession  are  not  those  which  make  of 
the  many  a  herd,  not  superior,  except  in  the  far  reach  of 
their  selfish  interests,  to  the  animals ;  mere  calculating, 
money-making  machines. 

He  sees  in  commerce  a  representation  of  most  important 
interests,  a  grand  school  that  may  teach  the  heart  and  soul 
of  the  civilized  world  to  a  willing,  thinking  mind.  He  plays 
his  part  in  the  game,  but  not  for  himself  alone ;  he  sees  the 
interests  of  all  mankind  engaged  with  his,  and  remembers 
them  while  he  furthers  his  own.  His  intellectual  discern- 


THE  RICH   MAN.  289 

ment,  DO  less  than  his  moral,  thus  teaching  the  undesirable- 
ness  of  lying  and  stealing,  he  does  not  practise  or  connive  at 
the  falsities  and  meannesses  so  frequent  among  his  fellows ; 
he  suffers  many  turns  of  the  wheel  of  fortune  to  pass  unused, 
since  he  cannot  avail  himself  of  them  and  keep  clean  his 
hands.  What  he  gains  is  by  superior  assiduity,  skill  in  com 
bination  and  calculation,  and  quickness  of  sight.  His  gains 
are  legitimate,  so  far  as  the  present  state  of  things  permits 
any  gains  to  be. 

Nor  is  this  honorable  man  denied  his  due  rank  in  the  most 
corrupt  state  of  society.  Here,  happily,  we  draw  from  life,  and 
speak  of  what  we  know.  Honesty  is,  indeed,  the  best  policy, 
only  it  is  so  in  the  long  run,  and  therefore  a  policy  which  a 
selfish  man  has  not  faith  and  patience  to  pursue.  The  influ 
ence  of  the  honest  man  is  in  the  end  predominant,  and  the 
rogues  who  sneer  because  he  will  not  shuffle  the  cards  in  their 
way,  are  forced  to  bow  to  it  at  last. 

But  while  thus  conscientious  and  mentally-progressive,  he 
does  not  forget  to  live.  The  sharp  and  care-worn  faces,  the 
joyless  lives  that  throng  the  busy  street,  do  not  make  him  for 
get  his  need  of  tender  affections,  of  the  practices  of  bounty 
and  love.  His  family,  his  acquaintance,  especially  those  who 
are  struggling  with  the  difficulties  of  life,  are  not  obliged  to 
wait  till  he  has  accumulated  a  certain  sum.  He  is  sunlight 
and  dew  to  them  now,  day  by  day.  No  less  do  all  in  his 
employment  prize  and  bless  the  just,  the  brotherly  man.  He 
dares  not,  would  not,  climb  to  power  upon  their  necks.  Pie 
requites  their  toil  handsomely,  always ;  if  his  success  be  unu 
sual,  they  share  the  benefit.  Their  comfort  is  cared  for  in  all 
the  arrangements  for  their  work.  He  takes  care,  too,  to  be 
personally  acquainted  with  those  he  employs,  regarding  them, 
not  as  mere  tools  of  his  purpose,  but  as  human  beings  also ; 
he  keeps  them  in  his  eye,  and  if  it  be  in  his  power  to  supply 
their  need  of  consolation,  instruction,  or  even  pleasure,  they 
find  they  have  a  friend. 
25 


290  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

"  Nonsense ! "  exclaims  our  sharp-eyed,  thin-lipped  antag 
onist.  "  Such  a  man  would  never  get  rich,  —  or  even  get 
along!" 

You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Stockjobber.  Thus  far  many  lines 
of  our  sketch  are  drawn  from  real  life  ;  though  for  the  second 
part,  which  follows,  we  want,  as  yet,  a  worthy  model. 

We  must  imagine,  then,  our  ideal  merchant  to  have  grown 
rich  in  some  forty  years  of  toil  passed  in  the  way  we  have 
indicated.  His  hair  is  touched  with  white,  but  his  form  is 
vigorous  yet.  Neither  gourmandise  nor  the  fever  of  gain  has 
destroyed  his  complexion,  quenched  the  light  of  his  eye,  or 
substituted  sneers  for  smiles.  He  is  an  upright,  strong,  saga 
cious,  generous-looking  man ;  and  if  his  movements  be  abrupt, 
and  his  language  concise,  somewhat  beyond  the  standard  of 
beauty,  he  is  still  the  gentleman  ;  mercantile,  but  a  mercan 
tile  nobleman. 

Our  nation  is  not  silly  in  striving  for  an  aristocracy.  Hu 
manity  longs  for  its  upper  classes.  But  the  silliness  consists 
in  making  them  out  of  clothes,  equipage,  and  a  servile  imita 
tion  of  foreign  manners,  instead  of  the  genuine  elegance  and 
distinction  that  can  only  be  produced  by  genuine  culture. 
Shame  upon  the  stupidity  which,  when  all  circumstances 
leave  us  free  for  the  introduction  of  a  real  aristocracy  such 
as  the  world  never  saw,  bases  its  pretensions  on,  or  makes  its 
bow  to  the  footman  behind,  the  coach,  instead  of  the  person 
within  it. 

But  our  merchant  shall  be  a  real  nobleman,  whose  noble 
manners  spring  from  a  noble  mind,  whose  fashions  from  a 
sincere,  intelligent  love  of  the  beautiful. 

We  will  also  indulge  the  fancy  of  giving  him  a  wife  and 
children  worthy  of  himself.  Having  lived  in  sympathy  with 
him,  they  have  acquired  no  taste  for  luxury ;  they  do  not 
think  that  the  best  use  for  wealth  and  power  is  in  self-indul 
gence,  but,  on  the  contrary,  that  "  it  is  more  blessed  to  give 
than  to  receive." 


THE   RICH   MAN.  291 

He  is  now  having  one  of  those  fine  houses  built,  and,  as 
in  other  things,  proceeds  on  a  few  simple  principles.  It  is 
substantial,  for  he  wishes  to  give  no  countenance  to  the  paper 
buildings  that  correspond  with  other  worthless  paper  currency 
of  a  credit  system.  It  is  thoroughly  finished  and  furnished, 
for  he  has  a  conscience  about  his  house,  as  about  the  neatness 
of  his  person.  All  must  be  of  a  piece.  Harmony  and  a  wise 
utility  are  consulted,  without  regard  to  show.  Still,  as  a  rich 
man,  we  allow  him  reception-rooms,  lofty,  large,  adorned  with 
good  copies  of  ancient  works  of  art,  and  fine  specimens  of 
modern. 

I  admit,  in  this  instance,  the  propriety  of  my  nobleman 
often  choosing  by  advice  of  friends,  who  may  have  had  more 
leisure  and  opportunity  to  acquire  a  sure  appreciation  of  merit 
in  these  walks.  His  character  being  simple,  he  will,  no  doubt, 
appreciate  a  great  part  of  what  is  truly  grand  and  beautiful. 
But  also,  from  imperfect  culture,  he  might  often  reject  what 
in  the  end  he  would  have  found  most  valuable  to  himself  and 
others.  For  he  has  not  done  learning,  but  only  acquired  the 
privilege  of  helping  to  open  a  domestic  school,  in  which  he 
will  find  himself  a  pupil  as  well  as  a  master.  So  he  may  well 
make  use,  in  furnishing  himself  with  the  school  apparatus,  of  the 
best  counsel.  The  same  applies  to  making  his  library  a  good 
one.  Only  there  must  be  no  sham ;  no  pluming  himself  on 
possessions  that  represent  his  wealth,  but  the  taste  of  others. 
Our  nobleman  is  incapable  of  pretension,  or  the  airs  of  con- 
noisseurship  ;  his  object  is  to  furnish  a  home  with  those  testi 
monies  of  a  higher  life  in  man,  that  may  best  aid  to  cultivate 
the  same  in  himself  and  those  assembled  round  him. 

He  shall  also  have  a  fine  garden  and  greenhouses.  But 
the  flowers  shall  not  be  used  only  to  decorate  his  apartments, 
or  the  hair  of  his  daughters,  but  shall  often  bless,  by  their  soft 
and  exquisite  eloquence,  the  poor  invalid,  or  others  whose 
sorrowful  hearts  find  in  their  society  a  consolation  and  a  hope 
which  nothing  else  bestows.  For  flowers,  the  highest  expres- 


292  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

sion  of  the  bounty  of  nature,  declare  that  for  all  men,  not 
merely  labor,  or  luxury,  but  gentle,  buoyant,  ever-energetic 
joy,  was  intended,  and  bid  us  hope  that  we  shall  not  forever 
be  kept  back  from  our  inheritance. 

All  the  persons  who  have  aided  in  building  up  this  domestic 
temple,  from  the  artist  who  painted  the  ceilings  to  the  poorest 
hodman,  shall  be  well  paid  and  cared  for  during  its  erection ;  for 
it  is  a  necessary  part  of  the  happiness  of  our  nobleman,  to  feel 
that  all  concerned  in  creating  his  home  are  the  happier  for  it. 

We  have  said  nothing  about  the  architecture  of  the  house, 
and  yet  this  is  only  for  want  of  room.  We  do  consider  it 
one  grand  duty  of  every  person  able  to  build  a  good  house, 
also  to  aim  at  building  a  beautiful  one.  We  do  not  want  im 
itations  of  what  was  used  in  other  ages,  nations,  and  climates, 
but  what  is  simple,  noble,  and  in  conformity  with  the  wants 
of  our  own.  Room  enough,  simplicity  of  design,  and  judi 
cious  adjustment  of  the  parts  to  their  uses  and  to  the  whole, 
are  the  first  requisites  ;  the  ornaments  are  merely  the  finish 
on  these.  We  hope  to  see  a  good  style  of  civic  architecture 
long  before  any  material  improvement  in  the  country  edifices, 
for  reasons  that  would  be  tedious  to  enumerate  here.  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  we  are  far  more  anxious  to  see  an  American 
architecture  than  an  American  literature ;  for  we  are  sure 
there  is  here  already  something  individual  to  express. 

Well,  suppose  the  house  built  and  equipped  with  man  and 
horse.  You  may  be  sure  my  nobleman  gives  his  "hired 
help "  good  accommodations  for  their  sleeping  and  waking 
hours,  —  baths,  books,  and  some  leisure  to  use  them.  Nay,  I 
assure  you  —  and  this  assurance  also  is  drawn  from  life  —  that 
it  is  possible,  even  in  our  present  social  relations,  for  the  man 
who  does  common  justice,  in  these  respects,  to  his  fellows,  and 
shows  a  friendly  heart,  that  thoroughly  feels  service  to  be  no 
degradation,  but  an  honor,  who  believes 

"  A  man's  a  MAN  for  a'  that ;  "  — 
"  Honor  in  the  king  the  wisdom  of  his  service, 
Honor  in  the  serf  the  fidelity  of  his  service,"  — 


THE   RICH   MAN.  293 

to  have  around  him  those  who  do  their  work  in  serenity  of 
mind,  neither  deceiving  nor  envying  him  whom  circumstances 
have  enabled  to  command  their  service.  As  to  the  carriage, 
that  is  used  for  the  purpose  of  going  to  and  fro  in  bad  weather, 
or  ill  health,  or  haste,  or  for  drives  to  enjoy  the  country. 
But  my  nobleman  and  his  family  are  too  well  born  and  bred 
not  to  prefer  employing  their  own  feet  when  possible.  And 
their  carriage  is  much  appropriated  to  the  use  of  poor  invalids, 
even  among  the  abhorred  class  of  poor  relations,  so  that  often 
they  have  not  room  in  it  for  themselves,  much  less  for  flaunt 
ing  dames  and  lazy  dandies. 

We  need  hardly  add  that,  their  attendants  wear  no  liveries. 
They  are  aware  that,  in  a  society  where  none  of  the  causes 
exist  that  justify  this  habit  abroad,  the  practice  would  have  no 
other  result  than  to  call  up  a  sneer  to  the  lips  of  the  most 
complaisant  "  milor,"  when  "  Mrs.  Higginbottom's  carriage 
stops  the  way,"  with  its  tawdry,  ill-fancied  accompaniments. 
Will  none  of  their  "  governors "  tell  our  cits  the  JEsopian 
fable  of  the  donkey  that  tried  to  imitate  the  gambols  of  the 
little  dog  ? 

The  wife  of  my  nobleman  is  so  well  matched  with  him  that 
she  has  no  need  to  be  the  better  half.  She  is  his  almoner,  his 
counsellor,  and  the  priestess  who  keeps  burning  on  the  do 
mestic  hearth  a  fire  from  the  fuel  he  collects  in  his  out-door 
work,  whose  genial  heart  and  aspiring  flame  comfort  and  ani 
mate  all  who  come  within  its  range. 

His  children  are  his  ministers,  whose  leisure  and  various 
qualifications  enable  them  to  carry  out  his  good  thoughts. 
They  hold  all  that  they  possess  —  time,  money,  talents,  acquire 
ments  —  on  the  principle  of  stewardship.  They  wake  up  the 
seeds  of  virtue  and  genius  in  all  the  young  persons  of  their 
acquaintance ;  but  the  poorer  classes  are  especially  their  care. 
Among  them  they  seek  for  those  who  are  threatened  with  dying 
—  "  mute,  inglorious  "  Hampdens  and  Miltons  —  but  for  their 
scrutiny  and  care ;  of  these  they  become  the  teachers  and  pat- 
25* 


294  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

rons  to  the  extent  of  their  power.  Such  knowledge  of  the 
arts,  sciences,  and  just  principles  of  action  as  they  have  been 
favored  with,  they  communicate,  and  thereby  form  novices 
worthy  to  fill  up  the  ranks  of  the  true  American  aristocracy. 

And  the  house  —  it  is  a  large  one ;  a  simple  family  does 
not  fill  its  chambers.  Some  of  them  are  devoted  to  the  use 
of  men  of  genius,  who  need  a  serene  home,  free  from  care, 
while  they  pursue  their  labors  for  the  good  of  the  world. 
Thus,  as  in  the  palaces  of  the  little  princes  of  Italy  in  a  bet 
ter  day,  these  chambers  become  hallowed  by  the  nativities  of 
great  thoughts ;  and  the  horoscopes  of  the  human  births  that 
may  take  place  there,  are  likely  to  read  the  better  for  it. 
Suffering  virtue  sometimes  finds  herself  taken  home  here,  in 
stead  of  being  sent  to  the  almshouse,  or  presented  with  half  a 
dollar  and  a  ticket  for  coal,  and  finds  upon  my  nobleman's 
mattresses  (for  the  wealth  of  Croesus  would  not  lure  him  or 
his  to  sleep  upon  down)  dreams  of  angelic  protection  which 
enable  her  to  rise  refreshed  for  the  struggle  of  the  morrow. 

The  uses  of  hospitality  are  very  little  understood  among 
us,  so  that  we  fear  generally  there  is  a  small  chance  of  enter 
taining  gods  and  angels  unawares,  as  the  Greeks  and  He 
brews  did  in  the  generous  time  of  hospitality,  when  every 
man  had  a  claim  on  the  roof  of  fellow-man.  Now,  none  is 
received  to  a  bed  and  breakfast  unless  he  come  as  "  bearer  of 
despatches  "  from  His  Excellency  So-and-so. 

But  let  us  not  be  supposed  to  advocate  the  system  of  all 
work  and  no  play,  or  to  delight  exclusively  in  the  pedagogic 
and  Goody-Two-Shoes  vein.  Reader,  if  any  such  accompany 
me  to  this  scene  of  my  vision,  cheer  up ;  I  hear  the  sound  of 
music  in  full  band,  and  see  the  banquet  prepared.  Perhaps 
they  are  even  dancing  the  polka  and  redowa  in  those  airy, 
well-lighted  rooms.  In  another'  they  find  in  the  acting  of  ex 
tempore  dramas,  arrangement  of  tableaux,  little  concerts  or 
recitations,  intermingled  with  beautiful  national  or  fancy 
dances,  some  portion  of  the  enchanting,  refining,  and  ennobling 


THE   RICH   MAN.  295 

influence  of  the  arts.  The  finest  engravings  on  all  subjects 
attend  such  as  like  to  employ  themselves  more  quietly,  while 
those  who  can  find  a  companion  or  congenial  group  to  con 
verse  with,  find  also  plenty  of  recesses  and  still  rooms,  with 
softened  light,  provided  for  their  pleasure. 

There  is  not  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  —  we  dare  our  glove 
upon  it  —  a  more  devout  believer  than  ourselves  in  the  worship 
of  the  Muses  and  Graces,  both  for  itself,  and  its  importance  no 
less  to  the  moral  than  to  the  intellectual  life  of  a  nation. 
Perhaps  there  is  not  one  who  has  so  deep  a  feeling,  or  so 
many  suggestions  ready,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  to  be  hazarded 
on  the  subject. 

But  in  order  to  such  worship,  what  standard  is  there  as  to 
admission  to  the  service  ?  Talents  of  gold,  or  Delphian  tal 
ents  ?  fashion  or  elegance?  "standing"  or  the  power  to  move 
gracefully  from  one  position  to  another  ? 

Our  nobleman  did  not  hesitate  ;  the  handle  to  his  door  bell 
was  not  of  gold,  but  mother-of-pearl,  pure  and  prismatic. 

If  he  did  not  go  into  the  alleys  to  pick  up  the  poor,  they 
were  not  excluded,  if  qualified  by  intrinsic  qualities  to  adorn 
the  scene.  Neither  were  wealth  or  fashion  a  cause  of  exclu 
sion,  more  than  of  admission.  All  depended  on  the  person ; 
yet  he  did  not  seek  his  guests  among  the  slaves  of  fashion,  for 
he  knew  that  persons  highly  endowed  rarely  had  patience 
with  the  frivolities  of  that  class,  but  retired,  and  left  it  to  be 
peopled  mostly  by  weak  and  plebeian  natures.  Yet  all  de 
pended  on  the  individual.  Was  the  person  fair,  noble,  wise, 
brilliant,  or  even  only  youthfully  innocent  and  gay,  or  vener 
able  in  a  good  old  age,  he  or  she  was  welcome.  Still,  as  sim 
plicity  of  character  and  some  qualification  positively  good, 
healthy,  and  natural,  was  requisite  for  admission,  we  must  say 
the  company  was  select.  Our  nobleman  and  his  family  had 
weeded  their  "  circle  "  carefully,  year  by  year. 

Some  valued  acquaintances  they  had  made  in  ball-rooms 
and  boudoirs,  and  kept ;  but  far  more  had  been  made  through 


296  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

the  daily  wants  of  life,  and  shoemakers,  seamstresses,  and 
graziers  mingled  happily  with  artists  and  statesmen,  to  the 
benefit  of  both.  (N.  B.  —  None  used  the  poisonous  weed,  in 
or  out  of  our  domestic  temple.) 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  infinite  good  our  nobleman  and  his 
family  were  doing  by  creation  of  this  true  social  centre,  where 
the  legitimate  aristocracy  of  the  land  assembled,  not  to  be 
dazzled  by  expensive  furniture,  (our  nobleman  bought  what 
was  good  in  texture  and  beautiful  in  form,  but  not  because  it 
was  expensive,)  not  to  be  feasted  on  rare  wines  and  highly- 
seasoned  dainties,  though  they  found  simple  refreshments  well 
prepared,  as  indeed  it  was  a  matter  of  duty  and  conscience 
in  that  house  that  the  least  office  should  be  well  fulfilled,  but 
to  enjoy  the  generous  confluence  of  mind  with  mind  and  heart 
with  heart,  the  pastimes  that  are  not  waste-times  of  taste  and 
inventive  fancy,  the  cordial  union  of  beings  from  all  points 
and  places  in  noble  human  sympathy.  New  York  was  be 
ginning  to  be  truly  American,  or  rather  Columbian,  and  money 
stood  for  something  in  the  records  of  history.  It  had  brought 
opportunity  to  genius  and  aid  to  virtue.  But  just  at  this  mo 
ment,  the  jostling  showed  me  that  I  had  reached  the  corner 
of  Wall  Street.  I  looked  earnestly  at  the  omnibuses  dischar 
ging  their  eager  freight,  as  if  I  hoped  to  see  my  merchant. 
"  Perhaps  he  has  gone  to  the  post  office  to  take  out  letters 
from  his  friends  in  Utopia,"  thought  I.  "  Please  give  me  a 
penny,"  screamed  a  half-starved  ragged  little  street-sweep, 
and  the  fancied  cradle  of  the  American  Utopia  receded,  or 
rather  proceeded,  fifty  years,  at  least,  into  the  future. 


THE    POOR    MAN. 

AN  IDEAL  SKETCH. 

THE  foregoing  sketch  of  the  Rich  Man,  seems  to  require 
this  companion-piece ;  and  we  shall  make  the  attempt,  though 
the  subject  is  far  more  difficult  than  the  former  was. 

In  the  first  place,  we  must  state  what  we  mean  by  a  poor 
man,  for  it  is  a  term  of  wide  range  in  its  relative  applications. 
A  painstaking  artisan,  trained  to  self-denial,  and  a  strict  adap 
tation,  not  of  his  means  to  his  wants,  but  of  his  wants  to  his 
means,  finds  himself  rich  and  grateful,  if  some  unexpected 
fortune  enables  him  to  give  his  wife  a  new  gown,  his  children 
cheap  holiday  joys,  and  his  starving  neighbor  a  decent 
meal ;  while  George  IV.,  when  heir  apparent  to  the  throne 
of  Great  Britain,  considered  himself  driven  by  the  pressure 
of  poverty  to  become  a  debtor,  a  beggar,  a  swindler,  and,  by 
the  aid  of  perjury,  the  husband  of  two  wives  at  the  same  time, 
neither  of  whom  he  treated  well.  Since  poverty  is  made  an 
excuse  for  such  depravity  in  conduct,  it  would  be  well  to  mark 
the  limits  within  which  self-control  and  resistance  to  tempta 
tion  may  be  expected. 

When  he  of  the  olden  time  prayed, "  Give  me  neither  pov 
erty  nor  riches,"  we  presume  he  meant  that  proportion  of 
means  to  the  average  wants  of  a  human  being  which  secures 
freedom  from  pecuniary  cares,  freedom  of  motion,  and  a  mod 
erate  enjoyment  of  th«  common  blessings  offered  by  earth, 
air,  water,  the  natural  relations,  and  the  subjects  for  thought 
which  every  day  presents.  We  shall  certainly  not  look  above 

(297) 


298  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

this  point  for  our  poor  man.  A  prince  may  be  poor,  if  he 
has  not  means  to  relieve  the  sufferings  of  his  subjects,  or 
secure  to  them  needed  benefits.  Or  he  may  make  himself  so, 
just  as  a  well-paid  laborer  by  drinking  brings  poverty  to  his 
roof.  So  may  the  prince,  by  the  mental  gin  of  horse-racing 
or  gambling,  grow  a  beggar.  But  we  shall  not  consider  these 
cases. 

Our  subject  will  be  taken  between  the  medium  we  have 
spoken  of  as  answer  to  the  wise  man's  prayer,  and  that  desti 
tution  which  we  must  style  infamous,  either  to  the  individual 
or  to  the  society  whose  vices  have  caused  that  stage  of  poverty, 
in  which  there  is  no  certainty,  and  often  no  probability,  of 
work  or  bread  from  day  to  day,  —  in  which  cleanliness  and 
all  the  decencies  of  life  are  impossible,  and  the  natural  human 
feelings  are  turned  to  gall  because  the  man  finds  himself  on 
this  earth  in  a  far  worse  situation  than  the  brute.  In  this 
stage  there  is  no  ideal,  and  from  its  abyss,  if  the  unfortunates 
look  up  to  Heaven,  or  the  state  of  things  as  they  ought  to  be, 
it  is  with  suffocating  gasps  which  demand  relief  or  death. 
This  degree  of  poverty  is  common,  as  we  all  know ;  but  we 
who  do  not  share  it  have  no  right  to  address  those  who  do 
from  our  own  standard,  till  we  have  placed  their  feet  on  our 
own  level.  Accursed  is  he  who  does  not  long  to  have  this 
so  —  to  take  out  at  least  the  physical  hell  from  this  world ! 
Unblest  is  he  who  is  not  seeking,  either  by  thought  or  act,  to 
effect  this  poor  degree  of  amelioration  in  the  circumstances  of 
his  race. 

We  take  the  subject  of  our  sketch,  then,  somewhere  between 
the  abjectly  poor  and  those  in  moderate  circumstances.  What 
we  have  to  say  may  apply  to  either  sex,  and  to  any  grade  in 
this  division  of  the  human  family,  from  the  hodman  and 
washerwoman  up  to  the  hard-working,  poorly-paid  lawyer, 
clerk,  schoolmaster,  or  scribe. 

The  advantages  of  such  a  position  are  many.  In  the  first 
place,  you  belong,  inevitably,  to  the  active  and  suffering  part 


THE   POOR  MAN.  299 

of  the  world.  You  know  the  ills  that  try  men's  souls  and 
bodies.  You  cannot  creep  into  a  safe  retreat,  arrogantly  to 
judge,  or  heartlessly  to  forget,  the  others.  They  are  always 
before  you  ;  you  see  the  path  stained  by  their  bleeding  feet ; 
stupid  and  flinty,  indeed,  must  you  be,  if  you  can  hastily 
wound,  or  indolently  forbear  to  aid  them.  Then,  as  to  your 
self,  you  know  what  your  resources  are ;  what  you  can  do, 
what  bear ;  there  is  small  chance  for  you  to  escape  a  well- 
tempered  modesty.  Then  again,  if  you  find  power  in  yourself 
to  endure  the  trial,  there  is  reason  and  reality  in  some  degree 
of  self-reliance.  The  moral  advantages  of  such  training  can 
scarcely  fail  to  amount  to  something ;  and  as  to  the  mental, 
that  most  important  chapter,  how  the  lives  of  men  are  fash 
ioned  and  transfused  by  the  experience  of  passion  and  the 
development  of  thought,  presents  new  sections  at  every  turn, 
such  as  the  distant  dilettante's  opera-glasses  will  never  detect, 
—  to  say  nothing  of  the  exercise  of  mere  faculty,  which, 
though  insensible  in  its  daily  course,  leads  to  results  of  im 
mense  importance. 

But  the  evils,  the  disadvantages,  the  dangers,  how  many, 
how  imminent !  True,  indeed,  they  are  so.  There  is  the 
early  bending  of  the  mind  to  the  production  of  marketable 
results,  which  must  hinder  all  this  free  play  of  intelligence, 
and  deaden  the  powers  that  craved  instruction.  There  is  the 
callousness  produced  by  the  sight  of  more  misery  than  it  is 
possible  to  relieve  ;  the  heart,  at  first  so  sensitive,  taking  ref 
uge  in  a  stolid  indifference  against  the  pangs  of  sympathetic 
pain,  it  had  not  force  to  bear.  There  is  the  perverting  influ 
ence  of  uncongenial  employments,  undertaken  without  or 
against  choice,  continued  at  unfit  hours  and  seasons,  till  the 
man  loses  his  natural  relations  with  summer  and  winter,  day 
and  night,  and  has  no  sense  more  for  natural  beauty  and  joy. 
There  is  the  mean  providence,  the  perpetual  caution  to  guard 
against  ill,  instead  of  the  generous  freedom  of  a  mind  which 
expects  good  to  ensue  from  all  good  actions.  There  is  the 


300  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

sad  doubt  whether  it  will  do  to  indulge  the  kindly  impulse, 
the  calculation  of  dangerous  chances,  and  the  cost  between 
the  loving  impulse  and  its  fulfilment.  Yes ;  there  is  bitter 
chance  of  narrowness,  meanness,  and  dulness  on  this  path, 
and  it  requires  great  natural  force,  a  wise  and  large  view 
of  life  taken  at  an  early  age,  or  fervent  trust  in  God,  to 
evade  them. 

It  is  astonishing  to  see  the  poor,  no  less  than  the  rich,  the 
slaves  of  externals.  One  would  think  that,  where  the  rich 
man  once  became  aware  of  the  worthlessness  of  the  mere 
trappings  of  life  from  the  weariness  of  a  spirit  that  found  it 
self  entirely  dissatisfied  after  pomp  and  self-indulgence,  the 
poor  man  would  learn  this  a  hundred  times  from  the  experi 
ence  how  entirely  independent  of  them  is  all  that  is  intrinsi 
cally  valuable  in  our  life.  But,  no  !  The  poor  man  wants 
dignity,  wants  elevation  of  spirit.  It  is  his  own  servility  that 
forges  the  fetters  that  enslave  him.  Whether  he  cringe  to,  or 
rudely  defy,  the  man  in  the  coach  and  handsome  coat,  the 
cause  and  effect  are  the  same.  He  is  influenced  by  a  costume 
and  a  position.  He  is  not  firmly  rooted  in  the  truth  that  only 
in  so  far  as  outward  beauty  and  grandeur  are  representative 
of  the  mind  of  the  possessor,  can  they  count  for  any  thing  at 
all.  O,  poor  man  !  you  are  poor  indeed,  if  you  feel  yourself 
so  ;  poor  if  you  do  not  feel  that  a  soul  born  of  God,  a  mind 
capable  of  scanning  the  wondrous  works  of  time  and  space, 
and  a  flexible  body  for  its  service,  are  the  essential  riches  of 
a  man,  and  all  he  needs  to  make  him  the  equal  of  any  other 
man.  You  are  mean,  if  the  possession  of  money  or  other 
external  advantages  can  make  you  envy  or  shrink  from  a 
being  mean  enough  to  value  himself  upon  such.  Stand 
where  you  may,  O  man,  you  cannot  be  noble  and  rich  if 
your  brow  be  not  broad  and  steadfast,  if  your  eye  beam  not 
with  a  consciousness  of  inward  worth,  of  eternal  claims  and 
hopes  which  such  trifles  cannot  at  all  affect.  A  man  without 
this  majesty  is  ridiculous  amid  the  flourish  and  decorations 


THE   POOR  MAN.  301 

procured  by  money,  pitiable  in  the  faded  habiliments  of  pov 
erty.  But  a  man  who  is  a  man,  a  woman  who  is  a  woman, 
can  never  feel  lessened  or  embarrassed  because  others  look 
ignorantly  on  such  matters.  If  they  regret  the  want  of 
these  temporary  means  of  power,  it  must  be  solely  be 
cause  it  fetters  their  motions,  deprives  them  of  leisure  and 
desired  means  of  improvement,  or  of  benefiting  those  they 
love  or  pity. 

I  have  heard  those  possessed  of  rhetoric  and  imaginative 
tendency  declare  that  they  should  have  been  outwardly  great 
and  inwardly  free,  victorious  poets  and  heroes,  if  fate  had 
allowed  them  a  certain  quantity  of  dollars.  I  have  found  it 
impossible  to  believe  them.  In  early  youth,  penury  may 
have  power  to  freeze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul,  and  pre 
vent  it,  during  one  short  life,  from  becoming  sensible  of  its 
true  vocation  and  destiny.  But  if  it  has  become  conscious  of 
these,  and  yet  there  is  not  advance  in  any  and  all  circum 
stances,  no  change  would  avail. 

No,  our  poor  man  must  begin  higher !  He  must,  in  the 
first  place,  really  believe  there  is  a  God  who  ruleth  —  a  fact 
to  which  few  men  vitally  bear  witness,  though  most  are  ready 
to  affirm  it  with  the  lips. 

2.  He  must  sincerely  believe  that  rank  and  wealth 

"  are  but  the  guinea's  stamp  ; 
The  man's  the  gold  ;  "  — 

take  his  stand  on  his  claims  as  a  human  being,  made  in  God's 
own  likeness,  urge  them  when  the  occasion  permits,  but  never 
be  so  false  to  them  as  to  feel  put  down  or  injured  by  the  want 
of  mere  external  advantages. 

3.  He  must  accept  his  lot,  while  he  is  in  it.     If  he  can 
change  it  for  the  better,  let  his  energies  be  exerted  to  do  so. 
But  if  he  cannot,  there  is  none  that  will  not  yield  an  opening 
to  Eden,  to  the  glories  of  Zion,  and  even  to  the  subterranean 

26 


302  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

enchantments  of  our  strange  estate.     There  is  none  that  may 
not  be  used  with  nobleness. 


'•  Who  sweeps  a  room,  as  for  Thy  sake 
Makes  that  and  th'  action  clean." 


4.  Let  him  examine  the  subject  enough  to  be  convinced 
that  there  is  not  that  vast  difference  between  the  employments 
that  is  supposed,  in  the  means  of  expansion  and  refinement. 
All  depends  on  the  spirit  as  to  the  use  that  is  made  of  an 
occupation.     Mahomet  was  not  a  wealthy  merchant,  and  pro 
found  philosophers  have  ripened  on  the  benches,  not  of  the 
lawyers,  but  the  shoemakers.     It  did  not  hurt  Milton  to  be 
a  poor  schoolmaster,  nor  Shakspeare  to  do  the  errands  of  a 
London  play-house.     Yes,  "  the  mind  is  its  own  place,"  and 
if  it  will  keep  that  place,  all  doors  will  be  opened  from  it. 
Upon  this  subject  we  hope  to  offer  some  hints  at  a  future 
day,  in   speaking  of  the   different   trades,   professions,  and 
modes  of  labor. 

5.  Let  him  remember  that  from  no  man  can  the  chief 
wealth  be  kept.     On  all  men  the  sun  and  stars  shine  ;  for  all 
the  oceans  swell  and  rivers  flow.     All  men  may  be  brothers, 
lovers,  fathers,  friends ;  before  all  lie  the  mysteries  of  birth 
and  death.     If  these  wondrous  means  of  wealth  and  bless 
ing  be  likely  to  remain  misused  or  unused,  there  are  quite 
as  many  disadvantages  in  the  way  of  the  man  of  money 
as  of  the  man  who  has  none.     Few  who  drain  the  choicest 
grape  know  the  ecstasy  of  bliss  and  knowledge  that  follows  a 
full  draught  of  the  wine  of  life.     That  has  mostly  been  re 
served  for  those  on  whose  thoughts  society,  as  a  public,  makes 
but  a  moderate  claim.     And  if  bitterness  followed  on  the  joy, 
if  your  fountain  was  frozen  after  its  first  gush  by  the  cold 
winds  of  the  world,  yet,  moneyless  men,  ye  are  at  least  not 
wholly  ignorant  of  what  a  human  being  has  force  to  know. 
You  have  not  skimmed  over  surfaces,  and  been  dozing  on 


THE   POOR   MAN.  303 

beds  of  down,  during  the  rare  and  stealthy  visits  of  Love  and 
the  Muses.  Remember  this,  and,  looking  round  on  the  ar 
rangements  of  the  lottery,  see  if  you  did  not  draw  a  prize  in 
your  turn. 

It  will  be  seen  that  our  ideal  poor  man  needs  to  be  reli 
gious,  wise,  dignified,  and  humble,  grasping  at  nothing,  claim 
ing  all ;  willing  to  wait,  never  willing  to  give  up  ;  servile  to 
none,  the  servant  of  all,  and  esteeming  it  the  glory  of  a  man 
to  serve.  The  character  is  rare,  but  not  unattainable.  We 
have,  however,  found  an  approach  to  it  more  frequent  in 
woman  than  in  man. 


THE   CELESTIAL   EMPIRE. 

DURING  a  late  visit  to  Boston,  I  visited  with  great  pleasure 
the  Chinese  Museum,  which  has  been  opened  there. 

There  was  much  satisfaction  in  surveying  its  rich  contents, 
if  merely  on  account  of  their  splendor  and  elegance,  which, 
though  fantastic  to  our  tastes,  presented  an  obvious  standard 
of  its  own  by  which  to  prize  it.  The  rich  dresses  of  the 
imperial  court,  the  magnificent  jars,  (the  largest  worth  three 
hundred  dollars,  and  looking  as  if  it  was  worth  much  more,) 
the  present-boxes  and  ivory  work,  the  elegant  interiors  of  the 
home  and  counting-room,  —  all  these  gave  pleasure  by  their 
perfection,  each  in  its  kind. 

But  the  chief  impression  was  of  that  unity  of  existence,  so 
opposite  to  the  European,  and,  for  a  change,  so  pleasant,  from 
its  repose  and  gilded  lightness.  Their  imperial  majesties  do 
really  seem  so  "  perfectly  serene,"  that  we  fancy  we  might 
become  so  under  their  sway,  if  not  "  thoroughly  virtuous,"  as 
they  profess  to  be.  Entirely  a  new  mood  would  be  ours,  as 
we  should  sup  in  one  of  those  pleasure  boats,  by  the  light  of 
fanciful  lanterns,  or  listen  to  the  tinkling  of  pagoda  bells. 

The  highest  conventional  refinement,  of  a  certain  kind,  is 
apparent  in  all  that  belongs  to  the  Chinese.  The  inviola 
bility  of  custom  has  not  made  their  life  heavy,  but  shaped  it 
to  the  utmost  adroitness  for  their  own  purposes.  We  are 
now  somewhat  familiar  with  their  literature,  and  we  see  per 
vading  it  a  poetry  subtle  and  aromatic,  like  the  odors  of  their 
appropriate  beverage.  Like  that,  too,  it  is  all  domestic,  — 
never  wild.  The  social  genius,  fluttering  on  the  wings  of 
compliment,  pervades  every  thing  Chinese.  Society  has 

(304) 


THE   CELESTIAL   EMPIRE.  305 

moulded  them,  body  and  soul ;  the  youngest  children  are 
more  social  and  Chinese  than  human  ;  and  we  doubt  not  the 
infant,  with  its  first  cry,  shows  its  capacity  for  self-command 
and  obedience  to  superiors. 

Their  great  man,  Confucius,  expresses  this  social  genius  in 
its  most  perfect  state  and  highest  form.  His  golden  wisdom 
is  the  quintescence  of  social  justice.  He  never  forgets  condi 
tions  and  limits ;  he  is  admirably  wise,  pure,  and  religious, 
but  never  towers  above  humanity — never  soars  into  soli 
tude.  There  is  no  token  of  the  forest  or  cave  in  Confucius. 
Few  men  could  understand  him,  because  his  nature  was  so 
thoroughly  balanced,  and  his  rectitude  so  pure ;  not  because 
his  thoughts  were  too  deep,  or  too  high  for  them.  In  him 
should  be  sought  the  best  genius  of  the  Chinese,  with  that 
perfect  practical  good  sense  whose  uses  are  universal. 

At  one  time  I  used  to  change  from  reading  Confucius  to 
one  of  the  great  religious  books  of  another  Eastern  nation  ; 
and  it  was  always  like  leaving  the  street  and  the  palace  for 
the  blossoming  forest  of  the  East,  where  in  earlier  times  we 
are  told  the  angels  walked  with  men  and  talked,  not  of  earth, 
but  of  heaven. 

As  we  looked  at  the  forms  moving  about  in  the  Museum, 
we  could  not  wonder  that  the  Chinese  consider  us,  who  call 
ourselves  the  civilized  world,  barbarians,  so  deficient  were 
those  forms  in  the  sort  of  refinement  that  the  Chinese  prize 
above  all.  And  our  people  deserve  it  for  their  senselessness 
in  viewing  them  as  barbarians,  instead  of  seeing  how  perfectly 
they  represent  their  own  idea.  They  are  inferior  to  us  in 
important  developments,  but,  on  the  whole,  approach  far 
nearer  their  own  standard  than  we  do  ours.  And  it  is 
wonderful  that  an  enlightened  European  can  fail  to  prize  the 
sort  of  beauty  they  do  develop.  Sets  of  engravings  we  have 
seen  representing  the  culture  of  the  tea  plant,  have  brought 
to  us  images  of  an  entirely  original  idyllic  loveliness.  One 
long  resident  in  China  has  observed  that  nothing  can  be 
26* 


306  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

more  enchanting  than  the  smile  of  love  on  the  regular,  but 
otherwise  expressionless  face  of  a  Chinese  woman.  It  has 
the  simplicity  and  abandonment  of  infantine,  with  the  fulness 
of  mature  feeling.  It  never  varies,  but  it  does  not  tire. 

The  same  sweetness  and  elegance  stereotyped  now,  but 
having  originally  a  deep  root  in  their  life  as  a  race,  may  be 
seen  in  their  poetry  and  music.  The  last  we  have  heard, 
both  from  the  voice  and  several  instruments,  at  this  Museum, 
for  the  first  time,  and  were  at  first  tempted  to  laugh,  when 
something  deeper  forbade.  Like  their  poetry,  the  music  is 
of  the  narrowest  monotony,  a  kind  of  rosary,  a  repetition  of 
phrases,  and,  in  its  enthusiasm  and  conventional  excitement, 
like  nothing  else  in  the  heavens  and  on  the  earth.  Yet  both 
the  poetry  and  music  have  in  them  an  expression  of  birds, 
roses,  and  moonlight ;  indeed,  they  suggest  that  state  where 
"  moonlight,  and  music,  and  feeling  are  one,"  though  the  soul 
seems  to  twitter,  rather  than  sing  of  it. 

It  is  wonderful  with  how  little  practical  insight  travellers 
in  China  look  on  what  they  see.  They  seem  to  be  struck  by 
points  of  repulsion  at  once,  and  neither  see  nor  tell  us  what 
could  give  any  real  clew  to  their  facts.  I  do  not  speak 
now  of  the  recent  lecturers  in  this  city,  for  I  have  not  heard 
them ;  but  of  the  many,  many  books  into  which  I  have  ear 
lier  looked  with  eager  curiosity,  —  in  vain,  —  I  always  found 
the  same  external  facts,  and  the  same  prejudices  which  disa 
bled  the  observer  from  piercing  beneath  them.  I  feel  that  I 
know  something  of  the  Chinese  when  reading  Confucius,  or 
looking  at  the  figures  on  their  tea-cups,  or  drinking  a  cup  of 
genuine  tea — rather  an  unusual  felicity,  it  is  said,  in  this 
ingenious  city,  which  shares  with  the  Chinese  one  trait  at 
least.  But  the  travellers  rather  take  from  than  add  to  this 
knowledge ;  and  a  visit  to  this  Museum  would  give  more  clear 
views  than  all  the  books  I  ever  read  yet. 

The  juggling  was  well  done,  and  so  solemnly,  with  the 
same  concentrated  look  as  the  music !  I  saw  the  juggler 


THE   CELESTIAL   EMPIRE.  307 

afterwards  at  Ole  Bull's  concert,  and  he  moved  not  a  muscle 
while  the  nightingale  was  pouring  forth  its  sweetest  descant. 
Probably  the  avenues  wanted  for  these  strains  to  enter  his 
heart  had  been  closed  by  the  imperial  edict  long  ago.  The 
resemblance  borne  by  this  juggler  to  our  Indians  is  even 
greater  than  we  have  seen  in  any  other  case.  His  brother 
hood  does  not,  to  us,  seem  surprising.  Our  Indians,  too,  are 
stereotyped,  though  in  a  different  way  ;  they  are  of  a  mould 
capable  of  retaining  the  impression  through  ages  ;  and  many 
of  the  traits  of  the  two  races,  or  two  branches  of  a  race,  may 
seem  to  be  identical,  though  so  widely  modified  by  circum 
stances.  They  are  all  opposite  to  us,  who  have  made  ships, 
and  balloons,  and  magnetic  telegraphs,  as  symbolic  expres 
sions  of  our  wants,  and  the  means  of  gratifying  them.  We 
must  console  ourselves  with  these,  and  our  organs  and  pianos, 
for  our  want  of  perfect  good  breeding,  serenity,  and  "  thor 
ough  virtue." 


KLOPSTOCK  AND   META.* 

THE  poet  had  retired  from  the  social  circle.  Its  mirth  was 
to  his  sickened  soul  a  noisy  discord,  its  sentiment  a  hollow 
mockery.  With  grief  he  felt  that  the  recital  of  a  generous 
action,  the  vivid  expression  of  a  noble  thought,  could  only 
graze  the  surface  of  his  mind.  The  desolate  stillness  of  death 
lay  brooding  on  its  depths.  The  friendly  smiles,  the  tender 
attentions  which  seemed  so  sweet  in  those  hours  when  Meta 
was  "  crown  of  his  cup  and  garnish  of  his  dish,"  could  give  the 
present  but  a  ghastly  similitude  to  those  blessed  days.  While 
his  attention,  disobedient  to  his  wishes,  kept  turning  painfully 
inward,  the  voice  of  the  singer  suddenly  startled  it  back.  A 
lovely  maid,  with  moist,  clear  eye,  and  pleading,  earnest  voice, 
was  seated  at  the  harpsichord.  She  sang  a  sad,  and  yet  not 
hopeless,  strain,  like  that  of  a  lover  who  pines  in  absence,  yet 
hopes  again  to  meet  his  loved  one. 

The  heart  of  Klopstock  rose  to  his  lips,  and  natural  tears 
suffused  his  eyes.  She  paused.  Some  youth  of  untouched 
heart,  shallow,  as  yet,  in  all  things,  asked  for  a  lively  song, 
the  expression  of  animal  enjoyment.  She  hesitated,  and  cast 
a  sidelong  glance  at  the  mourner.  Heedlessly  the  request  was 
urged :  she  wafted  over  the  keys  an  airy  prelude.  A  cold 
rush  of  anguish  came  over  the  awakened  heart ;  Klopstock 
rose,  and  hastily  left  the  room. 

He  entered  his  apartment,  and  threw  himself  upon  the  bed. 
The  moon  was  nearly  at  the  full :  a  tree  near  the  large  win- 

*  Meta,  the  wife  of  Klopstock,  one  of  Germany's  most  celebrated  poets, 
is  doubtless  well  known  to  many  of  our  readers  through  the  beautiful  letters 
to  Samuel  Richardson,  the  novelist,  or  through  Mrs.  Jameson's  work,  enti 
tled  the  Loves  of  the  Poets.  It  is  said  that  Klopstock  wrote  continually 
to  her  even  after  her  death. 

(308) 


KLOPSTOCK    AND    META.  309 

dow  obscured  its  radiance,  and  cast  into  the  room  a  flickering 
shadow,  as  its  leaves  kept  swaying  to  and  fro  with  the  breeze. 

Vainly  Klopstock  sought  for  soothing  influences  in  the  con 
templation  of  the  soft  and  varying  light.  Sadness  is  always 
deepest  at  this  hour  of  celestial  calmness.  The  soul  realizes 
its  wants,  and  longs  to  be  in  harmony  with  itself  far  more  in 
such  an  hour  than  when  any  outward  ill  is  arousing  or 
oppressing  it. 

"  Weak,  fond  wretch  that  I  am !  "  cried  he.  "  I,  the  bard 
of  the  Messiah  !  To  what  purpose  have  I  nurtured  ray  soul 
on  the  virtues  of  that  sublime  model,  for  whom  no  renunciation 
was  too  hard  ?  Four  years  an  angel  sojourned  with  me :  her 
presence  vivified  my  soul  into  purity  and  benevolence  like  her 
own.  Happy  was  I  as  the  saints  who  rest  after  their  long 
struggles  in  the  bosom  of  perfect  love.  I  thought  myself 
good  because  I  sinned  not  against  a  bounteous  God,  because 
my  heart  could  spare  some  drops  of  its  overflowing  oil  and 
balm  for  the  wounds  of  others  :  now  what  am  I  ?  My  angel 
leaves  me,  but  she  leaves  with  me  the  memory  of  blissful 
years  and  our  perfect  communion  as  an  earnest  of  that 
happy  meeting  which  awaits  us,  if  I  prove  faithful  to  my  own 
words  of  faith,  to  those  strains  of  religious  confidence  which 
are  even  now  cheering  onward  many  an  inexperienced  youth. 
And  what  are  my  deeds  and  feelings  ?  The  springs  of  life 
and  love  frozen,  here  I  lie,  sunk  in  grief,  as  if  I  knew  no 
world  beyond  the  grave.  The  joy  of  others  seems  an  insult, 
their  grief  a  dead  letter,  compared  with  my  own.  Meta! 
Meta  !  couldst  thou  see  me  in  my  hour  of  trial,  thou  wouldst 
disdain  thy  chosen  one  ! " 

A  strain  of  sweet  and  solemn  music  swelled  on  his  ear  —  one 
of  those  majestic  harmonies  which,  were  there  no  other  proof  of 
the  soul's  immortality,  must  suggest  the  image  of  an  intellect 
ual  paradise.  It  closed,  and  Meta  stood  before  him.  A  long 
veil  of  silvery  whiteness  fell  over  her,  through  which  might 
be  seen  the  fixed  but  nobly-serene  expression  of  the  large 
blue  eyes,  and  a  holy,  seraphic  dignity  of  mien.  Klopstock 


310  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

knelt  before  her  :  his  soul  was  awed  to  earth.  "  Hast  thoti 
come,  my  adored  ! "  said  he,  "  from  thy  home  of  bliss,  to  tell 
me  that  thou  no  longer  lovest  thy  unworthy  friend  ?  " 

"  O,  speak  not  thus  !  "  replied  the  softest  and  most  penetrat 
ing  of  voices.  "  God  wills  not  that  his  purified  creatures 
should  look  in  contempt  or  anger  on  those  suffering  the  ills 
from  which  they  are  set  free.  O,  no,  my  love  !  my  husband ! 
I  come  to  speak  consolation  to  thy  sinking  spirit.  When  you 
left  me  to  breathe  my  last  sigh  in  the  arms  of  a  sister,  who, 
however  dear,  was  nothing  to  my  heart  in  comparison  with 
you,  I  closed  my  eyes,  wishing  that  the  light  of  day  might  de 
part  with  thee.  The  thought  of  what  thou  must  suffer  con 
vulsed  my  heart  with  one  last  pang.  Once  more  I  murmured 
the  wish  I  had  so  often  expressed,  that  the  sorrows  of  the  sur 
vivor  might  have  fallen  to  my  lot  rather  than  to  thine.  In 
that  pang  my  soul  extricated  itself  from  the  body  ;  a  sensa 
tion  like  that  from  exquisite  fragrance  came  over  me,  and 
with  breezy  lightness  I  rose  into  the  pure  serene.  It  was  a 
moment  of  feeling  almost  wild,  —  so  free,  so  unobscured.  I 
had  not  yet  passed  the  verge  of  comparison ;  I  could  not  yet 
embrace  the  Infinite :  therefore  my  joy  was  like  those  of 
earth  —  intoxicating. 

"  Words  cannot  paint,  even  to  thy  eager  soul,  my  friend,  the 
winged  swiftness,  the  onward,  glowing  hopefulness  of  my  path 
through  the  fields  of  azure.  I  paused,  at  length,  in  a  region 
of  keen,  pure,  bluish  light,  such  as  beams  from  Jupiter  to  thy 
planet  on  a  lovely  October  evening. 

"  Here  an  immediate  conviction  pervaded  me  that  this  was 
home  —  was  my  appointed  resting  place ;  a  full  tide  of  hope 
and  satisfaction  similar  to  the  emotion  excited  on  my  first  ac 
quaintance  with  thy  poem  flowed  over  this  hour ;  a  joyous 
confidence  in  the  existence  of  Goodness  and  Beauty  supplied 
for  a  season,  the  want  of  thy  society.  The  delicious  clearness 
of  every  emotion  exalted  my  soul  into  a  realm  full  of  life. 
Some  time  elapsed  in  this  state.  The  whole  of  my  temporal 
existence  passed  in  review  before  me.  My  thoughts,  my 


KLOPSTOCK    AND    META.  311 

actions,  were  placed  in  full  relief  before  the  cleared  eye  of  my 
spirit.  Beloved,  thou  wilt  rejoice  to  know  that  thy  Meta 
could  then  feel  that  her  worst  faults  sprung  from  ignorance. 
As  I  was  striving  to  connect  my  present  state  with  my  past, 
and,  as  it  were,  poising  myself  on  the  brink  of  space  and  time, 
the  breath  of  another  presence  came  across  me,  and,  gradually 
evolving  from  the  bosom  of  light,  a  figure  rose  before  me,  in 
grace,  in  sweetness,  how  excelling  !  Fixing  her  eyes  on  mine 
with  the  full  gaze  of  love,  she  said,  in  flute-like  tones, '  Dost 
thou  know  me,  my  sister  ? ' 

" '  Art  thou  not/  I  replied,  '  the  love  of  Petrarch  ?  I  have 
seen  the  portraiture  of  thy  mortal  lineaments,  and  now  recog 
nize  that  perfect  beauty,  the  full  violet  flower  which  thy 
lover's  genius  was  able  to  anticipate.' 

" '  Yes,'  she  said,  *  I  am  Laura  —  on  earth  most  happy,  yet 
most  sad ;  most  rich,  and  yet  most  poor.  I  come  to  greet  her 
whom  I  recognize  as  the  inheritress  of  all  that  was  lovely  in 
my  earthly  being,  more  happy  than  I  in  her  temporal  state. 
I  have  sympathized,  O  wife  of  Klopstock  !  in  thy  transitory 
happiness.  Thy  lover  was  thy  priest  and  thy  poet ;  thy  model 
and  oracle  was  thy  bosom  friend.  All  that  earth  could  give 
was  thine ;  and  I  joyed  to  think  on  thy  rewarded  love,  thy 
freedom  of  soul,  and-  unchecked  faith.  Follow  me  now :  we 
are  to  dwell  in  the  same  circle,  and  I  am  appointed  to  show 
thee  thine  abiding  place.' 

"  She  guided  me  towards  the  source  of  that  light  which  I 
have  described  to  thee.  We  paused  before  a  structure  of 
dazzling  whiteness,  which  stood  on  a  slope,  and  overlooked  a 
valley  of  exceeding  beauty.  It  was  shaded  by  trees  which 
had  that  peculiar  calmness  that  the  shadows  of  trees  have  be 
low  in  the  high  noon  of  summer  moonlight  — 

' .  .  .     trees  which  are  still 
As  the  shades  of  trees  below, 
When  they  sleep  on  the  lonely  hill, 
In  the  summer  moonlight  glow.' 


312  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

It  was  decked  with  majestic  sculptures,  of  which  I  may  speak 
in  some  future  interview.  Before  it  rose  a  fountain,  from 
which  the  stream  of  light  flowed  down  the  valley,  dividing  it 
into  two  unequal  parts.  The  larger  and  farther  from  us 
seemed,  when  I  first  looked  on  it,  populous  with  shapes,  beau 
teous  as  that  of  my  guide.  But,  when  I  looked  more  fix 
edly,  I  saw  only  the  valley,  carpeted  with  large  blue  and 
white  flowers,  which  emitted  a  hyacinthine  odor.  Here, 
Laura,  turning  round,  asked,  'Is  not  this  a  poetic  home, 
Meta  ? ' 

"I  paused  a  moment  ere  I  replied,  'It  is  indeed  a  place  of 
beauty,  but  more  like  the  Greek  elysium  than  the  home  Klop- 
stock  and  I  were  wont  to  picture  to  ourselves  beyond  the 
gates  of  Death.' 

" '  Thou  sayest  well,'  she  said ;  '  nor  is  this  thy  final  home ; 
thou  wilt  but  wait  here  a  season,  till  Klopstock  comes.' 

"  '  What,'  said  I,  '  alone !  alone  in  Eden  ? ' 

" '  Has  not  Meta,  then,  collected  aught  on  which  she  might 
meditate  ?  Hast  thou  never  read,  "  While  I  was  musing,  the 
fire  burned"?' 

u  '  Laura,'  said  I,  '  spare  the  reproach.  The  love  of  Pe- 
trach,  whose  soul  grew  up  in  golden  fetters,  whose  strongest 
emotions,  whose  most  natural  actions  were,  through  a  long 
life,  constantly  repressed  by  the  dictates  of  duty  and  honor, 
she  content  might  pass  long  years  in  that  contemplation  which 
was  on  earth  her  only  solace.  But  I,  whose  life  has  all  been 
breathed  out  in  love  and  ministry,  can  I  endure  that  my 
existence  be  reversed  ?  Can  I  live  without  utterance  of  spirit  ? 
or  would  such  be  a  stage  of  that  progressive  happiness  we  are 
promised  ? ' 

'"True,  little  one ! '  said  she,  with  her  first  heavenly  smile  ; 
*  nor  shall  it  be  thus  with  thee.  A  ministry  is  appointed 
thee  —  the  same  which  I  exercised  while  waiting  here  for  that 
friend  whom  below  I  was  forbidden  to  call  my  own.' 

"  She  touched  me,  and  from  my  shoulders  sprung  a  pair  of 
wings,  white  and  azure,  wide  and  glistering. 


KLOPSTOCK  AND    META.  313 

"  <  Meta ! '  she  resumed,  l  spirit  of  love !  be  this  thine  office. 
"Wherever  a  soul  pines  in  absence  from  all  companionship, 
breathe  sweet  thoughts  of  sympathy  to  be  had  in  another 
life,  if  deserved  by  virtuous  exertions  and  mental  progress. 
Bind  up  the  wounds  of  hearts  torn  by  bereavement ;  teach 
them  where  healing  is  to  be  found.  Revive  in  the  betrayed  and 
forsaken  heart  that  belief  in  virtue  and  nobleness,  without 
which  life  is  an  odious,  disconnected  dream.  Fan  every  flame 
of  generous  enthusiasm,  and  on  the  altars  where  it  is  kindled 
strew  thou  the  incense  of  wisdom.  In  such  a  ministry  thou 
couldst  never  be  alone,  since  hope  must  dwell  with  thee. 
But  I  shall  often  come  and  discourse  to  thee  of  the  future 
glories  of  thy  destiny.  Yet  more :  Seest  thou  that  marble 
tablet  ?  Retire  here  when  thy  pinions  are  wearied.  Give  up 
thy  soul  to  faith.  Fix  thine  eyes  on  the  tablet,  and  the  deeds 
and  thoughts  which  fill  the  days  of  Klopstock  shall  be  traced 
on  it.  Thus  shall  ye  not  be  for  a  day  divided.  Hast  thou, 
Meta,  aught  more  to  ask  ?  " 

" '  Messenger  of  peace  and  bliss ! '  said  I,  ( dare  I  frame 
another  request  ?  Is  it  too  presumptuous  to  ask  that  Klop 
stock  may  be  one  of  those  to  whom  I  minister,  and  that  he 
may  know  it  is  Meta  who  consoles  him  ?  ' 

" '  Even  this,  to  a  certain  extent,  I  have  power  to  grant. 
Most  pure,  most  holy  was  thy  life  with  Klopstock ;  ye  taught 
one  another  only  good  things,  and  peculiarly  are  ye  rewarded. 
Thou  mayst  occasionally  manifest  thyself  to  him,  and  answer 
his  prayers  with  words,  —  so  long,'  she  continued,  looking 
fixedly  at  me,  '  as  he  continues  true  to  himself  and  thee ! ' 

"  O,  my  beloved,  why  tell  thee  what  were  my  emotions  at 
such  a  promise  ?  Ah !  I  must  now  leave  thee,  for  dawn  is 
bringing  back  the  world's  doings.  Soon  I  shall  visit  thee 
again.  Farewell !  Remember  that  thy  every  thought  and 
deed  will  be  known  to  me,  and  be  happy  !  " 

She  vanished. 

27 


WHAT  FITS  A  MAN  TO  BE  A  VOTER? 

A  FABLE. 

THE  country  had  been  denuded  of  its  forests,  and  men 
cried,  "  Come  !  we  must  plant  anew,  or  there  will  be  no  shade 
for  the  homes  of  our  children,  or  fuel  for  their  hearths.  Let 
us  find  the  best  kernels  for  a  new  growth."  And  a  basket  of 
butternuts  was  offered. 

But  the  planters  rejected  it  with  disgust.  "What  a  black, 
rough  coat  it  has ! "  said  they ;  "  it  is  entirely  unfit  for  the 
dishes  on  a  nobleman's  table,  nor  have  we  ever  seen  it  in  such 
places.  It  must  have  a  greasy,  offensive  kernel ;  nor  can  fine 
trees  grow  up  from  such  a  nut." 

"  Friends,"  said  one  of  the  planters,  "  this  decision  may  be 
rash.  The  chestnut  has  not  a  handsome  outside ;  it  is  long 
encased  in  troublesome  burs,  and,  when  disengaged,  is  al 
most  as  black  as  these  nuts  you  despise.  Yet  from  it  grow 
trees  of  lofty  stature,  graceful  form,  and  long  life.  Its  ker 
nel  is  white,  and  has  furnished  food  to  the  most  poetic  and 
splendid  nations  of  the  older  world." 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  says  another ;  "  brown  is  entirely  different 
from  black.  I  like  brown  very  well ;  there  is  Oriental  pre 
cedent  for  its  respectability.  Perhaps  we  will  use  some  of 
your  chestnuts,  if  we  can  get  fine  samples.  But  for  the  pres 
ent,  I  think  we  should  use  only  English  walnuts,  such  as  our 
forefathers  delighted  to  honor.  Here  are  many  basketsful  of 
them,  quite  enough  for  the  present.  We  will  plant  them  with 
a  sprinkling  between  of  the  chestnut  and  acorn." 

"  But,"  rejoined  the  other,  "  many  butternuts  are  beneath 

(314) 


WHAT   FITS   A   MAN   TO    BE   A    VOTER?  315 

the  sod,  and  you  cannot  help  a  mixture  of  them  being  in  your 
wood,  at  any  rate." 

"  Well,  we  will  grub  them  up  and  cut  them  down  when 
ever  we  find  them.  We  can  use  the  young  shrubs  for  kin 
dlings." 

At  that  moment  two  persons  entered  the  council  of  a  darker 
complexion  than  most  of  those  present,  as  if  born  beneath  the 
glow  of  a  more  scorching  sun.  First  came  a  woman,  beauti 
ful  in  the  mild,  pure  grandeur  of  her  look ;  in  whose  large 
dark  eye  a  prophetic  intelligence  was  mingled  with  infinite 
sweetness.  She  looked  at  the  assembly  with  an  air  of  sur 
prise,  as  if  its  aspect  was  strange  to  her.  She  threw  quite 
back  her  veil,  and  stepping  aside,  made  room  for  her  com 
panion.  His  form  was  youthful,  about  the  age  of  one  we 
have  seen  in  many  a  picture  produced  by  the  thought  of 
eighteen  centuries,  as  of  one  "  instructing  the  doctors."  I 
need  not  describe  the  features ;  all  minds  have  their  own  im 
pressions  of  such  an  image, 

"  Severe  in  youthful  beauty." 

In  his  hand  he  bore  a  white  banner,  on  which  was  em 
broidered,  "  PEACE  AND  GOOD  WILL  TO  MEN."  And  the 
words  seemed  to  glitter  and  give  out  sparks,  as  he  paused  in 
the  assembly. 

"  I  came  hither,"  said  he,  "  an  uninvited  guest,  because  I  read 
sculptured  above  the  door  'All  men  born  free  and  equal,' 
and  in  this  dwelling  hoped  to  find  myself  at  home.  What  is 
the  matter  in  dispute  ?  " 

Then  they  whispered  one  to  another,  and  murmurs  were 
heard  —  "  He  is  a  mere  boy ;  young  people  are  always  foolish 
and  extravagant ; "  or,  "  He  looks  like  a  fanatic."  But  others 
said,  "  He  looks  like  one  whom  we  have  been  taught  to  honor. 
It  will  be  best  to  tell  him  the  matter  in  dispute." 

When  he  heard  it,  he  smiled,  and  said,  "  It  will  be  needful 
first  to  ascertain  which  of  the  nuts  is  soundest  within"  And 


316  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE  WITHIN. 

with  a  hammer  he  broke  one,  two,  and  more  of  the  English 
walnuts,  and  they  were  mouldy.  Then  he  tried  the  other 
nuts,  but  found  most  of  them  fresh  within  and  white,  for  they 
were  fresh  from  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  while  the  others  had 
been  kept  in  a  damp  cellar. 

And  he  said,  "  You  had  better  plant  them  together,  lest 
none,  or  few,  of  the  walnuts  be  sound.  And  why  are  you  so 
reluctant?  Has  not  Heaven  permitted  them  both  to  grow  on  the 
same  soil  ?  and  does  not  that  show  what  is  intended  about  it?" 

And  they  said,  "  But  they  are  black  and  ugly  to  look  upon." 
He  replied,  "  They  do  not  seem  so  to  me.  What  my  Father 
has  fashioned  in  such  guise  offends  not  mine  eye." 

And  they  said,  "  But  from  one  of  these  trees  flew  a  bird  of 
prey,  who  has  done  great  wrong.  We  meant,  therefore,  to 
suffer  no  such  tree  among  us." 

And  he  replied,  "  Amid  the  band  of  my  countrymen  and 
friends  there  was  one  guilty  of  the  blackest  crime  —  that  of 
selling  for  a  price  the  life  of  his  dearest  friend ;  yet  all  the 
others  of  his  blood  were  not  put  under  ban  because  of  his 
guilt." 

Then  they  said,  "  But  in  the  Holy  Book  our  teachers  tell 
us,  we  are  bid  to  keep  in  exile  or  distress  whatsoever  is  black 
and  unseemly  in  our  eyes." 

Then  he  put  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  cried  in  a  voice  of 
the  most  penetrating  pathos,  "  Have  I  been  so  long  among 
you,  and  ye  have  not  known  me?"  And  the  woman  turned 
from  them  the  majestic  hope  of  her  glance,  and  both  forms 
suddenly  vanished ;  but  the  banner  was  left  trailing  in  the 
dust. 

The  men  stood  gazing  at  one  another.  After  which  one 
mounted  on  high,  and  said,  "  Perhaps,  my  friends,  we  carry 
too  far  this  aversion  to  objects  merely  because  they  are 
black.  I  heard,  the  other  day,  a  wise  man  say  that  black 
was  the  color  of  evil  —  marked  as  such  by  God,  and  that 
whenever  a  white  man  struck  a  black  man  he  did  an  act  of 


WHAT   FITS   A   MAN  TO   BE   A   VOTER  ?  317 

worship  to  God.*  I  could  not  quite  believe  him.  I  hope,  in 
what  I  am  about  to  add,  I  shall  not  be  misunderstood.  I  am 
no  abolitionist.  I  respect  above  all  things,  divine  or  human, 
the  constitution  framed  by  our  forefathers,  and  the  peculiar 
institutions  hallowed  by  the  usage  of  their  sons.  I  have  no 
sympathy  with  the  black  race  in  this  country.  I  wish  it  to 
be  understood  that  I  feel  towards  negroes  the  purest  personal 
antipathy.  It  is  a  family  trait  with  us.  My  little  son,  scarce 
able  to  speak,  will  cry  out,  '  Nigger !  Nigger ! '  whenever  he 
sees  one,  and  try  to  throw  things  at  them.  He  made  a  whole 
omnibus  load  laugh  the  other  day  by  his  cunning  way  of  doing 
this-t  The  child  of  my  political  antagonist,  on  the  other 
hand,  says  'he  likes  tullared  children  the  best.'f  You  see 
he  is  tainted  in  his  cradle  by  the  loose  principles  of  his  parents, 
even  before  he  can  say  nigger,  or  pronounce  the  more  refined 
appellation.  But  that  is  no  matter.  I  merely  mention  this 

by  the  way  ;  not  to  prejudice  you  against  Mr. ,  but  that 

you  may  appreciate  the  very  different  state  of  things  in  my 
family,  and  not  misinterpret  what  I  have  to  say.  I  was  lately 
in  one  of  our  prisons  where  a  somewhat  injudicious  indulgence 
had  extended  to  one  of  the  condemned  felons,  a  lost  and 
wretched  outcast  from  society,  the  use  of  materials  for  paint 
ing,  tliat  having  been  his  profession.  He  had  completed  at 
his  leisure  a  picture  of  the  Lord's  Supper.  Most  of  the 
figures  were  well  enough,  hut  Judas  he  had  represented  as  a 
black,  f  Now,  gentlemen,  I  am  of  opinion  that  this  is  an 
unwarrantable  liberty  taken  with  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and 
shows  too  much  prejudice  in  the  community.  It  is  my  wish 
to  be  moderate  and  fair,  and  preserve  a  medium,  neither,  on 
the  one  hand,  yielding  the  wholesome  antipathies  planted  in 
our  breasts  as  a  safeguard  against  degradation,  and  our  con 
stitutional  obligations,  which,  as  I  have  before  observed,  are, 
with  me,  more  binding  than  any  other ;  nor,  on  the  other 

*  Fact,  that  this  is  affirmed.  f  Facts. 

27* 


318  LIFE   WITHOUT    AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

hand,  forgetting  that  liberality  and  wisdom  which  are  the  pre 
rogative  of  every  citizen  of  this  free  commonwealth.  I  agree, 
then,  with  our  young  visitor.  I  hardly  know,  indeed,  why  a 
stranger,  and  one  so  young,  was  permitted  to  mingle  in  this 
council ;  but  it  was  certainly  thoughtful  in  him  to  crack  and 
examine  the  nuts.  I  agree  that  it  may  be  well  to  plant  some 
of  the  black  nuts  among  the  others,  so  that,  if  many  of  the 
walnuts  fail,  we  may  make  use  of  this  inferior  tree." 

At  this  moment  arose  a  hubbub,  and  such  a  clamor  of 
"  dangerous  innovation,"  "  political  capital,"  "  low-minded  dem 
agogue,"  "  infidel  who  denies  the  Bible,"  "  lower  link  in  the 
chain  of  creation,"  &c.,  that  it  is  impossible  to  say  what  was 
the  decision. 


DISCOVERIES. 

SOMETIMES,  as  we  meet  people  in  the  street,  we  catch  a 
sentence  from  their  lips  that  affords  a  clew  to  their  history  and 
habits  of  mind,  and  puts  our  own  minds  on  quite  a  new  course. 

Yesterday  two  female  figures  drew  nigh  upon  the  street,  in 
whom  we  had  only  observed  their  tawdry,  showy  style  of 
dress,  when,  as  they  passed,  one  remarked  to  the  other,  in  the 
tone  of  a  person  who  has  just  made  a  discovery,  "  /think  there 
is  something  very  handsome  in  a  fine  child." 

Poor  woman !  that  seemed  to  have  been  the  first  time  in 
her  life  that  she  had  made  the  observation.  The  charms  of 
the  human  being,  in  that  fresh  and  flower-like  age  which  is 
intended  perpetually  to  refresh  us  in  our  riper,  renovate  us  in 
our  declining  years,  had  never  touched  her  heart,  nor  awak 
ened  for  her  the  myriad  thoughts  and  fancies  that  as  naturally 
attend  the  sight  of  childhood  as  bees  swarm  to  the  blossoming 
bough.  Instead  of  being  to  her  the  little  angels  and  fairies, 
the  embodied  poems  which  may  ennoble  the  humblest  lot,  they 
had  been  to  her  mere  "  torments,"  who  "  could  never  be  kept 
still,  or  their  faces  clean." 

How  piteous  is  the  loss  of  those  who  do  not  contemplate 
childhood  in  a  spirit  of  holiness !  The  heavenly  influence  on 
their  own  minds,  of  attention  to  cultivate  each  germ  of  great 
and  good  qualities,  of  avoiding  the  least  act  likely  to  injure,  is 
lost  —  a  loss  dreary  and  piteous !  for  which  no  gain  can  com 
pensate.  But  how  unspeakably  deplorable  the  petrifaction 
of  those  who  look  upon  their  little  friends  without  any  sym 
pathy  even,  whose  hearts  are,  by  selfishness,  worldliness,  and 
vanity,  seared  from  all  gentle  instincts,  who  can  no  longer 

(319) 


320  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

appreciate  their  spontaneous  grace  and  glee,  that  eloquence  in 
every  look,  motion,  and  stammered  word,  those  lively  and 
incessant  charms,  over  which  the  action  of  the  lower  motives 
with  which  the  social  system  is  rife,  may  so  soon  draw  a  veil ! 

We  can  no  longer  speak  thus  of  all  children.  On  some, 
especially  in  cities,  the  inheritance  of  sin  and  deformity  from 
bad  parents  falls  too  heavily,  and  incases  at  once  the  spark 
of  soul  which  God  still  doth  not  refuse  in  such  instances,  in  a 
careful,  knowing,  sensual  mask.  Such  are  never,  in  fact, 
children  at  all.  But  the  rudest  little  cubs  that  are  free  from 
taint,  and  show  the  affinities  with  nature  and  the  soul,  are  still 
young  and  flexible,  and  rich  in  gleams  of  the  loveliness  to  be 
hoped  from  perfected  human  nature. 

It  is  sad  that  all  men  do  not  feel  these  things.  It  is  sad 
that  they  wilfully  renounce  so  large  a  part  of  their  heritage, 
and  go  forth  to  buy  filtered  water,  while  the  fountain  is  gush 
ing  freshly  beside  the  door  of  their  own  huts.  As  with  the 
charms  of  children,  so  with  other  things.  They  do  not  know- 
that  the  sunset  is  worth  seeing  every  night,  and  the  shows  of 
the  forest  better  than  those  of  the  theatre,  and  the  work  of 
bees  and  beetles  more  instructive,  if  scanned  with  care,  than 
the  lyceum  lecture.  The  cheap  knowledge,  the  cheap  pleas 
ures,  that  are  spread  before  every  one,  they  cast  aside  in 
search  of  an  uncertain  and  feverish  joy.  We  did,  indeed, 
hear  one  man  say  that  he  could  not  possibly  be  deprived  of 
his  pleasures,  since  he  could  always,  even  were  his  abode  in 
the  narrowest  lane,  have  a  blanket  of  sky  above  his  head, 
where  he  could  see  the  clouds  pass,  and  the  stars  glitter.  But 
men  in  general  remain  unaware  that 

"  Life's  best  joys  are  nearest  us, 
Lie  close  about  our  feet." 

For  them  the  light  dresses  all  objects  in  endless  novelty, 
the  rose  glows,  domestic  love  smiles,  and  childhood  gives  out 
with  sportive  freedom  its  oracles  —  in  vain.  That  woman  had 


DISCOVERIES.  321 

seen  beauty  in  gay  shawls,  in  teacups,  in  carpets ;  but  only 
of  late  had  she  discovered  that  "  there  was  something  beauti 
ful  in  a  fine  child."  Poor  human  nature  !  Thou  must  have 
been  changed  at  nurse  by  a  bad  demon  at  some  time,  and 
strangely  maltreated,  —  to  have  such  blind  and  rickety  inter 
vals  as  come  upon  thee  now  and  then ! 


POLITENESS  TOO   GREAT  A  LUXURY  TO   BE 
GIVEN  TO  THE  POOR. 

A  FEW  days  ago,  a  lady,  crossing  in  one  of  the  ferry  boats 
that  ply  from  this  city,  saw  a  young  boy,  poorly  dressed,  sit 
ting  with  an  infant  in  his  arms  on  one  of  the  benches.  She 
observed  that  the  child  looked  sickly  and  coughed.  This,  as 
the  day  was  raw,  made  her  anxious  in  its  behalf,  and  she  went 
to  the  boy  and  asked  whether  he  was  alone  there  with  the 
baby,  and  if  he  did  not  think  the  cold  breeze  dangerous  for  it. 
He  replied  that  he  was  sent  out  with  the  child  to  take  care  of 
it,  and  that  his  father  said  the  fresh  air  from  the  water  would 
do  it  good. 

While  he  made  this  simple  answer,  a  number  of  persons 
had  collected  around  to  listen,  and  one  of  them,  a  well-dressed 
woman,  addressed  the  boy  in  a  string  of  such  questions  and 
remarks  as  these  :  — 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  Where  do  you  live  ?  Are  you  tell 
ing  us  the  truth  ?  It's  a  shame  to  have  that  baby  out  in  such 
weather ;  you'll  be  the  death  of  it.  (To  the  bystanders  :)  I 
would  go  and  see  his  mother,  and  tell  her  about  it,  if  I  was 
sure  he  had  told  us  the  truth  about  where  he  lived.  How  do 
you  expect  to  get  back  ?  Here,  (in  the  rudest  voice,)  some 
body  says  you  have  not  told  the  truth  as  to  where  you  live." 

The  child,  whose  only  offence  consisted  in  taking  care  of 
the  little  one  in  public,  and  answering  when  he  was  spoken  to, 
began  to  shed  tears  at  the  accusations  thus  grossly  preferred 
against  him.  The  bystanders  stared  at  both;  but  among 
them  all  there  was  not  one  with  sufficiently  clear  notions  of 

(322) 


POLITENESS   TOO   LUXURIOUS   FOR   THE   POOR.       323 

propriety  and  moral  energy  to  say  to  this  impudent  questioner 
"Woman,  do  you  suppose,  because  you  wear  a  handsome 
shawl,  and  that  boy  a  patched  jacket,  that  you  have  any  right 
to  speak  to  him  at  all,  unless  he  wishes  it  —  far  less  to  prefer 
against  him  these  rude  accusations  ?  Your  vulgarity  is  unen 
durable  ;  leave  the  place  or  alter  your  manner." 

Many  such  instances  have  we  seen  of  insolent  rudeness, 
or  more  insolent  affability,  founded  on  no  apparent  grounds, 
except  an  apparent  difference  in  pecuniary  position ;  for  no 
one  can  suppose,  in  such  cases,  the  offending  party  has  really 
enjoyed  the  benefit  of  refined  education  and  society,  but  all 
present  let  them  pass  as  matters  of  course.  It  was  sad  to  see 
how  the  poor  would  endure  —  mortifying  to  see  how  the  purse- 
proud  dared  offend.  An  excellent  man,  who  was,  in  his  early 
years,  a  missionary  to  the  poor,  used  to  speak  afterwards  with 
great  shame  of  the  manner  in  which  he  had  conducted  himself 
towards  them.  "When  I  recollect,"  said  he,  "the  freedom 
with  which  I  entered  their  houses,  inquired  into  all  their 
affairs,  commented  on  their  conduct,  and  disputed  their  state 
ments,  I  wonder  I  was  never  horsewhipped,  and  feel  that  I 
ought  to  have  been ;  it  would  have  done  me  good,  for  I  needed 
as  severe  a  lesson  on  the  universal  obligations  of  politeness  in 
its  only  genuine  form  of  respect  for  man  as  man,  and  delicate 
sympathy  with  each  in  his  peculiar  position." 

Charles  Lamb,  who  was  indeed  worthy  to  be  called  a  human 
being  because  of  those  refined  sympathies,  said,  "  You  call 
him  a  gentleman:  does  his  washerwoman  find  him  so?" 
We  may  say,  if  she  did,  she  found  him  a  man,  neither 
treating  her  with  vulgar  abruptness,  nor  giving  himself  airs 
of  condescending  liveliness,  but  treating  her  with  that  genuine 
respect  which  a  feeling  of  equality  inspires. 

To  doubt  the  veracity  of  another  is  an  insult  which  in  most 
civilized  communities  must  in  the  so-called  higher  classes  be 
atoned  for  by  blood,  but,  in  those  same  communities,  the  same 
men  will,  with  the  utmost  lightness,  doubt  the  truth  of  one 


324  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

who  wears  a  ragged  coat,  and  thus  do  all  they  can  to  injure 
and  degrade  him  by  assailing  his  self-respect,  and  breaking 
the  feeling  of  personal  honor  —  a  wound  to  which  hurts  a 
man  as  a  wound  to  its  bark  does  a  tree. 

Then  how  rudely  are  favors  conferred,  just  as  a  bone  is 
thrown  to  a  dog !  A  gentleman,  indeed,  will  not  do  that  with 
out  accompanying  signs  of  sympathy  and  regard.  Just  as 
this  woman  said.  "  If  you  have  told  the  truth  I  will  go  and 
see  your  mother,"  are  many  acts  performed  on  which  the 
actors  pride  themselves  as  kind  and  charitable. 

All  men  might  learn  from  the  French  in  these  matters. 
That  people,  whatever  be  their  faults,  are  really  well  bred, 
and  many  acts  might  be  quoted  from  their  romantic  annals, 
where  gifts  were  given  from  rich  to  poor  with  a  graceful  cour 
tesy,  equally  honorable  and  delightful  to  the  giver  and  the 
receiver. 

In  Catholic  countries  there  is  more  courtesy,  for  charity  is 
there  a  duty,  and  must  be  done  for  God's  sake ;  there  is  less 
room  for  a  man  to  give  himself  the  pharisaical  tone  about  it. 
A  rich  man  is  not  so  surprised  to  find  himself  in  contact  with 
a  poor  one ;  nor  is  the  custom  of  kneeling  on  the  open  pave 
ment,  the  silk  robe  close  to  the  beggar's  rags,  without  profit. 
The  separation  by  pews,  even  on  the  day  when  all  meet  near 
est,  is  as  bad  for  the  manners  as  the  soul. 

Blessed  be  he,  or  she,  who  has  passed  through  this  world, 
not  only  with  an  open  purse  and  willingness  to  render  the  aid 
of  mere  outward  benefits,  but  with  an  open  eye  and  open 
heart,  ready  to  cheer  the  downcast,  and  enlighten  the  dull  by 
words  of  comfort  and  looks  of  love.  The  wayside  charities 
are  the  most  valuable  both  as  to  sustaining  hope  and  diffusing 
knowledge,  and  none  can  render  them  who  has  not  an  expan 
sive  nature,  a  heart  alive  to  affection,  and  some  true  notion, 
however  imperfectly  developed,  of  the  meaning  of  human 
brotherhood. 

Such  a  one  can  never  sauce  the  given  meat  with  taunts, 


POLITENESS   TOO   LUXURIOUS   FOR   THE   POOR.       325 

freeze  the  viand  by  a  cold  glance  of  doubt,  or  plunge  the  man, 
who  asked  for  his  hand,  deeper  back  into  the  mud  by  any 
kind  of  rudeness. 

In  the  little  instance  with  which  we  began,  no  help  was 
asked,  unless  by  the  sight  of  the  timid  little  boy's  old  jacket. 
But  the  license  which  this  seemed  to  the  well-clothed  woman 
to  give  to  rudeness,  was  so  characteristic  of  a  deep  fault  now 
existing,  that  a  volume  of  comments  might  follow  and  a  host 
of  anecdotes  be  drawn  from  almost  any  one's  experience  in 
exposition  of  it.  These  few  words,  perhaps,  may  awaken 
thought  in  those  who  have  drawn  tears  from  other's  eyes 
through  an  ignorance  brutal,  but  not  hopelessly  so,  if  they  are 
willing  to  rise  above  it. 
28 


CASSIUS  M.  CLAY. 

THE  meeting  on  Monday  night  at  the  Tabernacle  was  to 
us  an  occasion  of  deep  and  peculiar  interest.  It  was  deep, 
for  the  feelings  there  expressed  and  answered  bore  witness  to 
the  truth  of  our  belief,  that  the  sense  of  right  is  not  dead,  but 
only  sleepeth  in  this  nation.  A  man  who  is  manly  enough  to 
appeal  to  it,  will  be  answered,  in  feeling  at  least,  if  not  in 
action,  and  while  there  is  life  there  is  hope.  Those  who  so 
rapturously  welcomed  one  who  had  sealed  his  faith  by  deeds 
of  devotion,  must  yet  acknowledge  in  their  breasts  the  germs 
of  like  nobleness. 

It  was  an  occasion  of  peculiar  interest,  such  as  we  have 
not  had  occasion  to  feel  since,  in  childish  years,  we  saw  Lafay 
ette  welcomed  by  a  grateful  people.  Even  childhood  well 
understood  that  the  gratitude  then  expressed  was  not  so  much 
for  the  aid  which  had  been  received  as  for  the  motives  and 
feelings  with  which  it  was  given.  The  nation  rushed  out  as 
one  man  to  thank  Lafayette,  that  he  had  been  able,  amid  the 
prejudices  and  indulgences  of  high  rank  in  the  old  regime  of 
society,  to  understand  the  great  principles  which  were  about 
to  create  a  new  form,  and  answer,  manlike,  with  love,  service, 
and  contempt  of  selfish  interests  to  the  voice  of  humanity 
demanding  its  rights.  Our  freedom  would  have  been  achieved 
without  Lafayette;  but  it  was  a  happiness  and  a  blessing 
to  number  the  young  French  nobleman  as  the  champion  of 
American  independence,  and  to  know  that  he  had  given  the 
prime  of  his  life  to  our  cause,  because  it  was  the  cause  of  jus 
tice.  With  similar  feelings  of  joy,  pride,  and  hope,  we  wel 
come  Cassius  M.  Clay,  a  man  who  has,  in  like  manner,  freed 

(326) 


CASSIUS  M.    CLAY.  327 

himself  from  the  prejudices  of  his  position,  disregarded  selfish 
considerations,  and  quitting  the  easy  path  in  which  he  might 
have  walked  to  station  in  the  sight  of  men,  and  such  external 
distinctions  as  his  State  and  nation  readily  confer  on  men  so 
born  and  bred,  and  with  such  abilities,  chose  rather  an  interest 
in  their  souls,  and  the  honors  history  will  not  fail  to  award  to 
the  man  who  enrolls  his  name  and  elevates  his  life  for  the 
cause  of  right  and  those  universal  principles  whose  recogni 
tion  can  alone  secure  to  man  the  destiny  without  which  he 
cannot  be  happy,  but  which  he  is  continually  sacrificing  for 
the  impure  worship  of  idols.  Yea,  in  this  country,  more  than 
in  the  old  Palestine,  do  they  give  their  children  to  the  fire  in 
honor  of  Moloch,  and  sell  the  ark  confided  to  them  by  the 
Most  High  for  shekels  of  gold  and  of  silver.  Partly  it  was 
the  sense  of  this  position  which  Mr.  Clay  holds,  as  a  man 
who  esteems  his  own  individual  convictions  of  right  more  than 
local  interests  or  partial,  political  schemes,  that  gave  him  such 
an  enthusiastic  welcome  on  Monday  night  from  the  very  hearts 
of  the  audience,  but  still  more  that  his  honor  is  at  this  moment 
identified  with  the  liberty  of  the  press,  which  has  been  insulted 
and  infringed  in  him.  About  this  there  can  be  in  fact  but  one 
opinion.  In  vain  Kentucky  calls  meetings,  states  reasons, 
gives  names  of  her  own  to  what  has  been  done.*  The  rest 
of  the  world  knows  very  well  what  the  action  is,  and  will 
call  it  by  but  one  name.  Regardless  of  this  ostrich  mode  of 
defence,  the  world  has  laughed  and  scoffed  at  the  act  of  a  peo 
ple  professing  to  be  free  and  defenders  of  freedom,  and  the 
recording  angel  has  written  down  the  deed  as  a  lawless  act  of 
violence  and  tyranny,  from  which  the  man  is  happy  who  can 
call  Lim self  pure. 

With  the  usual  rhetoric  of  the  wrong  side,  the  apolo 
gists  for  this  mob  violence  have  wished  to  injure  Mr.  Clay 
by  the  epithets  of  "hot-headed,"  "visionary,"  "fanatical." 
But,  if  any  have  believed  that  such  could  apply  to  a  man  so 

[*  The  destruction  of  Mr.  Clay's  press  by  a  mob.— ED.] 


328  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

clear-sighted  as  to  his  objects  and  the  way  of  achieving  them, 
the  mistake  must  have  been  corrected  on  Monday  night. 
Whoever  saw  Mr.  Clay  that  night,  saw  in  him  a  man  of  deep 
and  strong  nature,  thoroughly  in  earnest,  who  had  well  consid 
ered  his  ground,  and  saw  that  though  open,  as  the  truly  noble 
must  be,  to  new  views  and  convictions,  yet  his  direction  is 
taken,  and  the  improvement  to  be  made  will  not  be  to  turn 
aside,  but  to  expedite  and  widen  his  course  in  that  direction. 
Mr.  Clay  is  young,  young  enough,  thank  Heaven  !  to  promise 
a  long  career  of  great  thoughts  and  honorable  deeds.  But 
still,  to  those  who  esteem  youth  an  unpardonable  fault,  and 
one  that  renders  incapable  of  counsel,  we  would  say  that  he 
is  at  the  age  when  a  man  is  capable  of  great  thoughts  and 
great  deeds,  if  ever.  His  is  not  a  character  that  will  ever 
grow  old ;  it  is  not  capable  of  a  petty  and  short-sighted  pru 
dence,  but  can  only  be  guided  by  a  large  wisdom  which  is 
more  young  than  old,  for  it  has  within  itself  the  springs  of 
perpetual  youth,  and  which,  being  far-sighted  and  prophetical, 
joins  ever  with  the  progress  party  without  waiting  till  it  be 
obviously  in  the  ascendant. 

Mr.  Clay  has  eloquence,  but  only  from  the  soul.  He  does 
not  possess  the  art  of  oratory,  as  an  art.  Before  he  gets 
warmed  he  is  too  slow,  and  breaks  his  sentences  too  much. 
His  transitions  are  not  made  with  skill,  nor  is  the  structure 
of  his  speech,  as  a  whole,  symmetrical ;  yet,  throughout,  his 
grasp  is  firm  upon  his  subject,  and  all  the  words  are  laden 
with  the  electricity  of  a  strong  mind  and  generous  nature. 
When  he  begins  to  glow,  and  his  deep  mellow  eye  fills  with 
light,  the  speech  melts  and  glows  too,  and  he  is  able  to  impress 
upon  the  hearer  the  full  effect  of  firm  conviction,  conceived 
with  impassioned  energy.  His  often  rugged  and  harsh  em 
phasis  flashes  and  sparkles  then,  and  we  feel  that  there  is  in 
the  furnace  a  stream  of  iron:  iron,  fortress  of  the  nations 
and  victor  of  the  seas,  worth  far  more,  in  stress  of  storm,  than 
all  the  gold  and  gems  of  rhetoric. 


CASSIUS  M.    CLAY.  329 

The  great  principle  that  he  who  wrongs  one  wrongs  all, 
and  that  no  part  can  be  wounded  without  endangering  the 
whole,  was  the  healthy  root  of  Mr.  Clay's  speech.  The  report 
does  not  do  justice  to  the  turn  of  expression  in  some  parts 
which  were  most  characteristic.  These,  indeed,  depended 
much  on  the  tones  and  looks  of  the  speaker.  We  should 
speak  of  them  as  full  of  a  robust  and  homely  sincerity,  digni 
fied  by  the  heart  of  the  gentleman,  a  heart  too  secure  of  its 
respect  for  the  rights  of  others  to  need  any  of  the  usual  inter 
positions.  His  good-humored  sarcasm,  on  occasion  of  several 
vulgar  interruptions,  was  very  pleasant,  and  easily  at  those 
times  might  be  recognized  in  him  the  man  of  heroical  nature, 
who  can  only  show  himself  adequately  in  time  of  interruption 
and  of  obstacle.  If  that  be  all  that  is  wanted,  we  shall  surely 
see  him  wholly ;  there  will  be  no  lack  of  American  occasions 
to  call  out  the  Greek  fire.  We  want  them  all  —  the  Grecian 
men,  who  feel  a  godlike  thirst  for  immortal  glory,  and  to 
develop  the  peculiar  powers  with  which  the  gods  have  gifted 
them.  We  want  them  all  —  the  poet,  the  thinker,  the  hero. 
Whether  our  heroes  need  swords,  is  a  more  doubtful  point, 
we  think,  than  Mr.  Clay  believes.  Neither  do  we  believe  in 
some  of  the  means  he  proposes  to  further  his  aims.  God 
uses  all  kinds  of  means,  but  men,  his  priests,  must  keep  their 
hands  pure.  Nobody  that  needs  a  bribe  shall  be  asked  to 
further  our  schemes  for  emancipation.  But  there  is  room 
enough  and  time  enough  to  think  out  these  points  till  all  is  in 
harmony.  For  the  good  that  has  been  done  and  the  truth 
that  has  been  spoken,  for  the  love  of  such  that  has  been  seen 
in  this  great  city  struggling  up  through  the  love  of  money, 
we  should  to-day  be  thankful  —  and  we  are  so. 
28* 


THE  MAGNOLIA   OF   LAKE   PONTCHARTRAIN. 

THE  stars  tell  all  their  secrets  to  the  flowers,  and,  if  we 
only  knew  how  to  look  around  us,  we  should  not  need  to  look 
above.  But  man  is  a  plant  of  slow  growth,  and  great  heat  is 
required  to  bring  out  his  leaves.  He  must  be  promised  a 
boundless  futurity,  to  induce  him  to  use  aright  the  present 
hour.  In  youth,  fixing  his  eyes  on  those  distant  worlds  of 
light,  he  promises  himself  to  attain  them,  and  there  find  the 
answer  to  all  his  wishes.  His  eye  grows  keener  as  he  gazes, 
a  voice  from  the  earth  calls  it  downward,  and  he  finds  all  at 
his  feet. 

I  was  riding  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Pontchartrain,  musing 
on  an  old  English  expression,  which  I  had  only  lately  learned 
to  interpret.  "  He  was  fulfilled  of  all  nobleness."  Words  so 
significant  charm  us  like  a  spell,  long  before  we  know  their 
meaning.  This  I  had  now  learned  to  interpret.  Life  had 
ripened  from  the  green  bud,  and  I  had  seen  the  difference, 
wide  as  from  earth  to  heaven,  between  nobleness  and  the 
fulfilment  of  nobleness. 

A  fragrance  beyond  any  thing  I  had  ever  known  came 
suddenly  upon  the  air,  and  interrupted  my  meditation.  I 
looked  around  me,  but  saw  no  flower  from  which  it  could 
proceed.  There  is  no  word  for  it ;  exquisite  and  delicious 
have  lost  all  meaning  now.  It  was  of  a  full  and  penetrating 
sweetness,  too  keen  and  delicate  to  be  cloying.  Unable  to 
trace  it,  I  rode  on,  but  the  remembrance  of  it  pursued  me.  I 
had  a  feeling  that  I  must  forever  regret  my  loss,  my  want,  if 
I  did  not  return  and  find  the  poet  of  the  lake,  whose  voice 
was  such  perfume.  In  earlier  days,  I  might  have  disre- 

(330) 


THE  MAGNOLIA   OF   LAKE   PONTCHARTRAIN.         331 

garded  such  a  feeling ;  but  now  I  have  learned  to  prize  the 
monitions  of  my  nature  as  they  deserve,  and  learn  sometimes 
what  is  not  for  sale  in  the  market  place.  So  I  turned  back, 
and  rode  to  and  fro,  at  the  risk  of  abandoning  the  object  of 
my  ride. 

I  found  her  at  last,  the  queen  of  the  south,  singing  to  her 
self  in  her  lonely  bower.  Such  should  a  sovereign  be,  most 
regal  when  alone  ;  for  then  there  is  no  disturbance  to  prevent 
the  full  consciousness  of  power.  All  occasions  limit ;  a  king 
dom  is  but  an  occasion  ;  and  no  sun  ever  saw  itself  adequately 
reflected  on  sea  or  land. 

Nothing  at  the  south  had  affected  me  like  the  magnolia. 
Sickness  and  sorrow,  which  have  separated  rne  from  my  kind, 
have  requited  my  loss  by  making  known  to  me  the  loveliest 
dialect  of  the  divine  language.  "  Flowers,"  it  has  been  truly 
said,  "are  the  only  positive  present  made  us  by  nature." 
Man  has  not  been  ungrateful,  but  consecrated  the  gift  to 
adorn  the  darkest  and  brightest  hours.  If  it  is  ever  perverted, 
it  is  to  be  used  as  a  medicine ;  and  even  this  vexes  me.  But 
no  matter  for  that.  We  have  pure  intercourse  with  these 
purest  creations  ;  we  love  them  for  their  own  sake,  for  their 
beauty's  sake.  As  we  grow  beautiful  and  pure,  we  under 
stand  them  better.  With  me  knowledge  of  them  is  a  circum 
stance,  a  habit  of  my  life,  rather  than  a  merit.  I  have  lived 
with  them,  and  with  them  almost  alone,  till  I  have  learned  to 
interpret  the  slightest  signs  by  which  they  manifest  their  fair 
thoughts.  There  is  not  a  flower  in  my  native  region  which 
has  not  for  me  a  tale,  to  which  every  year  is  adding  new  inci 
dents  ;  yet  the  growths  of  this  new  climate  brought  me  new 
and  sweet  emotions,  and,  above  all  others,  was  the  magnolia 
a  revelation.  When  I  first  beheld  her,  a  stately  tower  of 
verdure,  each  cup,  an  imperial  vestal,  full-displayed  to  the 
eye  of  day,  yet  guarded  from  the  too  hasty  touch  even  of  the 
wind  by  its  graceful  decorums  of  firm,  glistening,  broad,  green 
leaves,  I  stood  astonished,  as  might  a  lover  of  music,  who,  after 


332  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

hearing  in  all  his  youth  only  the  harp  or  the  bugle,  should  be 
saluted,  on  entering  some  vast  cathedral,  by  the  full  peal  of  its 
organ. 

After  I  had  recovered  from  my  first  surprise,  I  became 
acquainted  with  the  flower,  and  found  all  its  life  in  harmony. 
Its  fragrance,  less  enchanting  than  that  of  the  rose,  excited  a 
pleasure  more  full  of  life,  and  which  could  longer  be  enjoyed 
without  satiety.  Its  blossoms,  if  plucked  from  their  home, 
refused  to  retain  their  dazzling  hue,  but  drooped  and  grew 
sallow,  like  princesses  captive  in  the  prison  of  a  barbarous  foe. 

But  there  was  something  quite  peculiar  in  the  fragrance 
of  this  tree  ;  so  much  so,  that  I  had  not  at  first  recognized 
the  magnolia.  Thinking  it  must  be  of  a  species  I  had  never 
yet  seen,  I  alighted,  and  leaving  my  horse,  drew  near  to  ques 
tion  it  with  eyes  of  reverent  love. 

"Be  not  surprised,"  replied  those  lips  of  untouched  purity, 
"  stranger,  who  alone  hast  known  to  hear  in  my  voice  a  tone 
more  deep  and  full  than  that  of  my  beautiful  sisters.  Sit 
down,  and  listen  to  my  tale,  nor  fear  that  I  will  overpower 
thee  by  too  much  sweetness.  I  am,  indeed,  of  the  race  you 
love,  but  in  it  I  stand  alone.  In  my  family  I  have  no  sister 
of  the  heart,  and  though  my  root  is  the  same  as  that  of  the 
other  virgins  of  our  royal  house,  I  bear  not  the  same  blossom, 
nor  can  I  unite  my  voice  with  theirs  in  the  forest  choir. 
Therefore  I  dwell  here  alone,  nor  did  I  ever  expect  to  tell 
the  secret  of  my  loneliness.  But  to  all  that  ask  there  is  an 
answer,  and  I  speak  to  thee. 

"  Indeed,  we  have  met  before,  as  that  secret  feeling  of 
home,  which  makes  delight  so  tender,  must  inform  thee. 
The  spirit  that  I  utter  once  inhabited  the  glory  of  the  most 
glorious  climates.  I  dwelt  once  in  the  orange  tree." 

"  Ah  ?  "  said  I ;  "  then  I  did  not  mistake.  It  is  the  same 
voice  I  heard  in  the  saddest  season  of  my  youth.  I  stood 
one  evening  on  a  high  terrace  in  another  land,  the  land 
where  '  the  plant  man  has  grown  to  greatest  size/  It  was  an 


THE   MAGNOLIA   OF  LAKE   PONTCHARTEAIN.          333 

evening  whose  unrivalled  splendor  demanded  perfection  in 
man  —  answering  to  that  he  found  in  nature  —  a  sky  *  black- 
blue  '  deep  as  eternity,  stars  of  holiest  hope,  a  breeze  promis 
ing  rapture  in  every  breath.  I  could  not  longer  endure  this 
discord  between  myself  and  such  beauty ;  I  retired  within  my 
window,  and  lit  the  lamp.  Its  rays  fell  on  an  orange  tree, 
full  clad  in  its  golden  fruit  and  bridal  blossoms.  How  did 
we  talk  together  then,  fairest  friend !  Thou  didst  tell  me  all ; 
and  yet  thou  knowest,  that  even  then,  had  I  asked  any  part 
of  thy  dower,  it  would  have  been  to  bear  the  sweet  fruit, 
rather  than  the  sweeter  blossoms.  My  wish  had  been  ex 
pressed  by  another. 

'  O,  that  I  were  an  orange  tree, 

That  busy  plant ! 
Then  should  I  ever  laden  be, 

And  never  want 
Some  fruit  for  him  that  dresseth  me.' 

Thou  didst  seem  to  me  the  happiest  of  all  spirits  in  wealth  of 
nature,  in  fulness  of  utterance.  How  is  it  that  I  find  thee  now 
in  another  habitation  ?  " 

"  How  is  it,  man,  that  thou  art  now  content  that  thy  life 
bears  no  golden  fruit  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  I  replied,  "  that  I  have  at  last,  through  privation, 
been  initiated  into  the  secret  of  peace.  Blighted  without, 
unable  to  find  myself  in  other  forms  of  nature,  I  was  driven 
back  upon  the  centre  of  my  being,  and  there  found  all  being. 
For  the  wise,  the  obedient  child  from  one  point  can  draw  all 
lines,  and  in  one  germ  read  all  the  possible  disclosures  of 
successive  life." 

"  Even  so,"  replied  the  flower,  "  and  ever  for  that  reason 
am  I  trying  to  simplify  my  being.  How  happy  I  was  in  the 
'  spirit's  dower  when  first  it  was  wed,'  I  told  thee  in  that 
earlier  day.  But  after"  a  while  I  grew  weary  of  that  fulness 
of  speech ;  I  felt  a  shame  at  telling  all  I  knew,  and  challen 
ging  all  sympathies ;  I  was  never  silent,  I  was  never  alone  ;  I 


334  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

had  a  voice  for  every  season,  for  day  and  night ;  on  me  the 
merchant  counted,  the  bride  looked  to  me  for  her  garland, 
the  nobleman  for  the  chief  ornament  of  his  princely  hall, 
and  the  poor  man  for  his  wealth ;  all  sang  my  praises,  all  ex 
tolled  my  beauty,  all  blessed  my  beneficence  ;  and,  for  a  while, 
my  heart  swelled  with  pride  and  pleasure.  But,  as  years 
passed,  my  mood  changed.  The  lonely  moon  rebuked  me,  as 
she  hid  from  the  wishes  of  man,  nor  would  return  till  her  due 
change  was  passed.  The  inaccessible  sun  looked  on  me  with 
the  same  ray  as  on  all  others ;  my  endless  profusion  could  not 
bribe  him  to  one  smile  sacred  to  me  alone.  The  mysterious 
wind  passed  me  by  to  tell  its  secret  to  the  solemn  pine,  and 
the  nightingale  sang  to  the  rose  rather  than  me,  though  she 
was  often  silent,  and  buried  herself  yearly  in  the  dark  earth. 

"  I  knew  no  mine  or  thine :  I  belonged  to  all.  I  could  never 
rest:  I  was  never  at  one.  Painfully  I  felt  this  want,  and 
from  every  blossom  sighed  entreaties  for  some  being  to  come 
and  satisfy  it.  With  every  bud  I  implored  an  answer,  but 
each  bud  only  produced  an  orange. 

"  At  last  this  feeling  grew  more  painful,  and  thrilled  my 
very  root.  The  earth  trembled  at  the  touch  with  a  pulse  so 
sympathetic  that  ever  and  anon  it  seemed,  could  I  but  retire 
and  hide  in  that  silent  bosom  for  one  calm  winter,  all  would 
be  told  me,  and  tranquillity,  deep  as  my  desire,  be  mine.  But 
the  law  of  my  being  was  on  me,  and  man  and  nature  seconded 
it.  Ceaselessly  they  called  on  me  for  my  beautiful  gifts  ;  they 
decked  themselves  with  them,  nor  cared  to  know  the  saddened 
heart  of  the  giver.  O,  how  cruel  they  seemed  at  last,  as  they 
visited  and  despoiled  me,  yet  never  sought  to  aid  me,  or  even 
paused  to  think  that  I  might  need  their  aid !  yet  I  would  not 
hate  them.  I  saw  it  was  my  seeming  riches  that  bereft  me 
of  sympathy.  I  saw  they  could  not  know  what  was  hid  be 
neath  the  perpetual  veil  of  glowing  lift.  I  ceased  to  expect 
aught  from  them,  and  turned  my  eyes  to  the  distant  stars.  I 
thought,  could  I  but  hoard  from  the  daily  expenditure  of  my 
juices  till  I  grew  tall  enough,  I  might  reach  those  distant 


THE  MAGNOLIA   OF  LAKE   PONTCHARTRAIN.         335 

spheres,  which  looked  so  silent  and  consecrated,  and  there 
pause  a  while  from  these  weary  joys  of  endless  life,  and  in  the 
lap  of  winter  find  my  spring. 

"  But  not  so  was  my  hope  to  be  fulfilled.  One  starlight 
night  I  was  looking,  hoping,  when  a  sudden  breeze  came  up. 
It  touched  me,  I  thought,  as  if  it  were  a  cold,  white  beam 
from  those  stranger  worlds.  The  cold  gained  upon  my  heart ; 
every  blossom  trembled,  every  leaf  grew  brittle,  and  the  fruit 
began  to  seem  unconnected  with  the  stem ;  soon  I  lost  all 
feeling ;  and  morning  found  the  pride  of  the  garden  black, 
stiff,  and  powerless. 

"  As  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun  touched  me,  consciousness 
returned,  and  I  strove  to  speak,  but  in  vain.  Sealed  were 
my  fountains,  and  all  my  heartbeats  still.  I  felt  that  I  had 
been  that  beauteous  tree,  but  now  only  was  —  what  —  I  knew 
not ;  yet  I  was,  and  the  voices  of  men  said,  It  is  dead ;  cast  it 
forth,  and  plant  another  in  the  costly  vase.  A  mystic  shudder 
of  pale  joy  then  separated  me  wholly  from  my  former  abode. 

"  A  moment  more,  and  I  was  before  the  queen  and  guardian 
of  the  flowers.  Of  this  being  I  cannot  speak  to  thee  in  any 
language  now  possible  betwixt  us  ;  for  this  is  a  being  of  another 
order  from  thee,  an  order  whose  presence  thou  mayst  feel, 
nay,  approach  step  by  step,  but  which  cannot  be  known  till  thou 
art  of  it,  nor  seen  nor  spoken  of  till  thou  hast  passed  through  it. 

"  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  it  is  not  such  a  being  as  men  love  to 
paint ;  a  fairy,  like  them,  only  lesser  and  more  exquisite  than 
they;  a  goddess,  larger  and  of  statelier  proportion  ;  an  angel, 
like  still,  only  with  an  added  power.  Man  never  creates  ;  he 
only  recombines  the  lines  and  colors  of  his  own  existence :  only 
a  deific  fancy  could  evolve  from  the  elements  the  form  that 
took  me  home. 

"  Secret,  radiant,  profound  ever,  and  never  to  be  known, 
was  she ;  many  forms  indicate,  and  none  declare  her.  Like 
all  such  beings,  she  was  feminine.  All  the  secret  powers 
are  "  mothers."  There  is  but  one  paternal  power. 


336  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

"  She  had  heard  my  wish  while  I  looked  at  the  stars,  and 
in  the  silence  of  fate  prepared  its  fulfilment.  '  Child  of  my 
most  communicative  hour,'  said  she,  '  the  full  pause  must  not 
follow  such  a  burst  of  melody.  Obey  the  gradations  of  na 
ture,  nor  seek  to  retire  at  once  into  her  utmost  purity  of 
silence.  The  vehemence  of  thy  desire  at  once  promises  and 
forbids  its  gratification.  Thou  wert  the  keystone  of  the  arch, 
and  bound  together  the  circling  year :  thou  canst  not  at  once 
become  the  base  of  the  arch,  the  centre  of  the  circle.  Take 
a  step  inward,  forget  a  voice,  lose  a  power ;  no  longer  a  boun 
teous  sovereign,  become  a  vestal  priestess,  and  bide  thy  time 
in  the  magnolia.' 

"  Such  is  my  history,  friend  of  my  earlier  day.  Others  of 
my  family,  that  you  have  met,  were  formerly  the  religious 
lily,  the  lonely  dahlia,  fearless  decking  the  cold  autumn,  and 
answering  the  shortest  visits  of  the  sun  with  the  brightest 
hues;  the  narcissus,  so  rapt  in  self-contemplation  that  it 
could  not  abide  the  usual  changes  of  a  life.  Some  of  these 
have  perfume,  others  not,  according  to  the  habit  of  their  ear 
lier  state ;  for,  as  spirits  change,  they  still  bear  some  trace,  a 
faint  reminder,  of  their  latest  step  upwards  or  inwards.  I 
still  speak  with  somewhat  of  my  former  exuberance  and  over- 
ready  tenderness  to  the  dwellers  on  this  shore ;  but  each  star 
sees  me  purer,  of  deeper  thought,  and  more  capable  of  retire 
ment  into  my  own  heart.  Nor  shall  I  again  detain  a  wan 
derer,  luring  him  from  afar ;  nor  shall  I  again  subject  myself 
to  be  questioned  by  an  alien  spirit,  to  tell  the  tale  of  my  being 
in  words  that  divide  it  from  itself.  Farewell,  stranger  !  and 
believe  that  nothing  strange  can  meet  me  more.  I  have 
atoned  by  confession ;  further  penance  needs  not ;  and  I  feel 
the  Infinite  possess  me  more  and  more.  Farewell !  to  meet 
again  in  prayer,  in  destiny,  in  harmony,  in  elemental  power." 

The  magnolia  left  me ;  I  left  not  her,  but  must  abide  for 
ever  in  the  thought  to  which  the  clew  was  found  in  the  margin 
of  that  lake  of  the  South. 


CONSECRATION  OF   GRACE   CHURCH. 

WHOEVER  passes  up  Broadway  finds  his  attention  arrested 
by  three  fine  structures  —  Trinity  Church,  that  of  the  Messiah, 
and  Grace  Church. 

His  impressions  are,  probably,  at  first,  of  a  pleasant  charac 
ter.  He  looks  upon  these  edifices  as  expressions,  which,  how 
ever  inferior  in  grandeur  to  the  poems  in  stone  which  adorn 
the  older  world,  surely  indicate  that  man  cannot  rest  content 
with  his  short  earthly  span,  but  prizes  relations  to  eternity. 
The  house  in  which  he  pays  deference  to  claims  which  death 
will  not  cancel  seems  to  be  no  less  important  in  his  eyes 
than  those  in  which  the  affairs  which  press  nearest  are  at 
tended  to. 

So  far,  so  good !  That  is  expressed  which  gives  man  his 
superiority  over  the  other  orders  of  the  natural  world,  that 
consciousness  of  spiritual  affinities  of  which  we  see  no  unequiv 
ocal  signs  elsewhere. 

But,  if  this  be  something  great  when  compared  with  the 
rest  of  the  animal  creation,  yet  how  little  seems  it  when  com 
pared  with  the  ideal  that  has  been  offered  to  him,  as  to  the 
means  of  signifying  such  feelings  !  These  temples  !  how  far 
do  they  correspond  with  the  idea  of  that  religious  sentiment 
from  which  they  originally  sprung  ?  In  the  old  world  the  his 
tory  of  such  edifices,  though  not  without  its  shadow,  had  many 
bright  lines.  Kings  and  emperors  paid  oftentimes  for  the 
materials  and  labor  a  price  of  blood  and  plunder,  and  many  a 
wretched  sinner  sought  by  contributions  of  stone  for  their 
walls  to  roll  off  the  burden  he  had  laid  on  his  conscience.  Still 
the  community  amid  which  they  rose  knew  little  of  these  draw- 
29  (337) 


338  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

backs.  Pious  legends  attest  the  purity  of  feeling  associated 
with  each  circumstance  of  their  building.  Mysterious  orders, 
of  which  we  know  only  that  they  were  consecrated  to  brother 
ly  love  and  the  development  of  mind,  produced  the  genius 
which  animated  the  architecture ;  but  the  casting  of  the  bells 
and  suspending  them  in  the  tower  was  an  act  in  which  all 
orders  of  the  community  took  part ;  for  when  those  cathedrals 
were  consecrated,  it  was  for  the  use  of  all.  Rich  and  poor 
knelt  together  upon  their  marble  pavements,  and  the  imperial 
altar  welcomed  the  obscurest  artisan. 

This  grace  our  churches  want  —  the  grace  which  belongs  to 
all  religions,  but  is  peculiarly  and  solemnly  enforced  upon  the 
followers  of  Jesus.  The  poor  to  whom  he  came  to  preach  can 
have  no  share  in  the  grace  of  Grace  Church.  In  St.  Peter's, 
if  only  as  an  empty  form,  the  soiled  feet  of  travel-worn  disci 
ples  are  washed ;  but  such  feet  can  never  intrude  on  the  fane 
of  the  holy  Trinity  here  in  republican  America,  and  the 
Messiah  may  be  supposed  still  to  give  as  excuse  for  delay, 
"  The  poor  you  always  have  with  you." 

We  must  confess  this  circumstance  is  to  us  quite  destructive 
of  reverence  and  value  for  these  buildings. 

We  are  told,  that  at  the  late  consecration,  the  claims  of  the 
poor  were  eloquently  urged ;  and  that  an  effort  is  to  be  made, 
by  giving  a  side  chapel,  to  atone  for  the  luxury  which  shuts 
them  out  from  the  reflection  of  sunshine  through  those  brilliant 
windows.  It  is  certainly  better  that  they  should  be  offered 
the  crumbs  from  the  rich  man's  table  than  nothing  at  all,  yet 
it  is  surely  not  the  way  that  Jesus  would  have  taught  to  pro 
vide  for  the  poor. 

Would  we  not  then  have  these  splendid  edifices  erected  ? 
We  certainly  feel  that  the  educational  influence  of  good  speci 
mens  of  architecture  (and  we  know  no  other  argument  in 
their  favor)  is  far  from  being  a  counterpoise  to  the  abstraction 
of  so  much  money  from  purposes  that  would  be  more  in  fulfil 
ment  of  that  Christian  idea  which  these  assume  to  represent. 


CONSECRATION   OF   GRACE   CHURCH.  339 

Were  the  rich  to  build  such  a  church,  and,  dispensing  with 
pews  and  all  exclusive  advantages,  invite  all  who  would  to 
come  in  to  the  banquet,  that  were,  indeed,  noble  and  Chris 
tian.  And,  though  we  believe  more,  for  our  nation  and  time, 
in  intellectual  monuments  than  those  of  wood  and  stone,  and, 
in  opposition  even  to  our  admired  Powers,  think  that  Michael 
Angelo  himself  could  have  advised  no  more  suitable  monu 
ment  to  Washington  than  a  house  devoted  to  the  instruc 
tion  of  the  people,  and  think  that  great  master,  and  the 
Greeks  no  less,  would  agree  with  us  if  they  lived  now  to  sur 
vey  all  the  bearings  of  the  subject,  yet  we  would  not  object 
to  these  splendid  churches,  if  the  idea  of  Him  they  call  Mas 
ter  were  represented  in  them.  But  till  it  is,  they  can  do  no 
good,  for  the  means  are  not  in  harmony  with  the  end.  The 
rich  man  sits  in  state  while  "  near  two  hundred  thousand " 
Lazaruses  linger,  unprovided  for,  without  the  gate.  While 
this  is  so,  they  must  not  talk  much,  within,  of  Jesus  of  Naza 
reth,  who  called  to  him  fishermen,  laborers,  and  artisans,  for 
his  companions  and  disciples. 

We  find  some  excellent  remarks  on  this  subject  from  Rev. 
Stephen  Olin,  president  of  the  Wesleyan  University.  They 
are  appended  as  a  note  to  a  discourse  addressed  to  young 
men,  on  the  text,  "  Put  ye  on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and 
make  not  provision  for  the  flesh,  to  fulfil  the  lusts  thereof." 

This  discourse,  though  it  discloses  formal  and  external  views 
of  religious  ties  and  obligations,  is  dignified  by  a  fervent,  gen 
erous  love  for  men,  and  a  more  than  commonly  catholic  liber 
ality  ;  and  though  these  remarks  are  made  and  meant  to  bear 
upon  the  interests  of  his  own  sect,  yet  they  are  anti-sectarian 
in  their  tendency,  and  worthy  the  consideration  of  all  anxious 
to  understand  the  call  of  duty  in  these  matters.  Earnest  atten 
tion  of  this  sort  will  better  avail  than  fifteen  hundred  dollars, 
or  more,  paid  for  a  post  of  exhibition  in  a  fashionable  church, 
where,  if  piety  be  provided  with  one  chance,  worldliness  has 
twenty  to  stare  it  out  of  countenance. 


340  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

"  The  strong  tendency  in  our  religious  operations  to  gather 
the  rich  and  the  poor  into  separate  folds,  and  so  to  generate  and 
establish  in  the  church  distinctions  utterly  at  variance  with 
the  spirit  of  our  political  institutions,  is  the  very  worst  result 
of  the  multiplication  of  sects  among  us ;  and  I  fear  it  must  be 
admitted  that  the  evil  is  greatly  aggravated  by  the  otherwise 
benignant  working  of  the  voluntary  system.  Without  insisting 
further  upon  the  probable  or  possible  injury  which  may  befall 
our  free  country  from  this  conflict  of  agencies,  ever  the  most 
powerful  in  the  formation  of  national  and  individual  character, 
no  one,  I  am  sure,  can  fail  to  recognize  in  this  development 
an  influence  utterly  and  irreconcilably  hostile  to  the  genius 
and  cherished  objects  of  Christianity.  It  is  the  peculiar  glory 
of  the  gospel  that,  even  under  the  most  arbitrary  govern 
ments,  it  has  usually  been  able  to  vindicate  and  practically  ex 
emplify  the  essential  equality  of  man.  It  has  had  one  doc 
trine  and  one  hope  for  all  its  children ;  and  the  highest  and 
the  lowest  have  been  constrained  to  acknowledge  one  holy  law 
of  brotherhood  in  the  common  faith  of  which  they  are  made 
partakers.  Nowhere  else,  I  believe,  but  in  the  United  States 
—  certainly  nowhere  else  to  the  same  extent  —  does  this  anti- 
Christian  separation  of  classes  prevail  in  the  Christian  church. 
The  beggar  in  his  tattered  vestments  walks  the  splendid  courts 
of  St.  Peter's,  and  kneels  at  its  costly  altars  by  the  side  of 
dukes  and  cardinals.  The  peasant  in  his  wooden  shoes  is  wel 
comed  in  the  gorgeous  churches  of  Notre  Dame  and  the  Mad 
eleine  ;  and  even  in  England,  where  political  and  social  dis 
tinctions  are  more  rigorously  enforced  than  in  any  other 
country  on  earth,  the  lord  and  the  peasant,  the  richest  and  the 
poorest,  are  usually  occupants  of  the  same  church,  and  par 
takers  of  the  same  communion.  That  the  reverse  of  all  this 
is  true  in  many  parts  of  this  country,  every  observing  man 
knows  full  well ;  and  what  is  yet  more  deplorable,  while  the 
lines  of  demarcation  between  the  different  classes  have  already 
become  sufficiently  distinct,  the  tendency  is  receiving  new 


CONSECRATION    OF    GRACE    CHURCH.  341 

strength  and  development  in  a  rapidly  augmenting  ratio. 
Even  in  country  places,  where  the  population  is  sparse,  and 
the  artificial  distinctions  of  society  are  little  known,  the  work 
ing  of  this  strange  element  is,  in  many  instances,  made  mani 
fest,  and  a  petty  coterie  of  village  magnates  may  be  found 
worshipping  God  apart  from  the  body  of  the  people.  But 
the  evil  is  much  more  apparent,  as  well  as  more  deeply  seated, 
in  our  populous  towns,  where  the  causes  which  produce  it 
have  been  longer  in  operation,  and  have  more  fully  enjoyed 
the  favor  of  circumstances.  In  these  great  centres  of  wealth, 
intelligence,  and  influence,  the  separation  between  the  classes 
is,  in  many  instances,  complete,  and  in  many  more  the  pro 
cess  is  rapidly  progressive. 

"  There  are  crowded  religious  congregations  composed  so 
exclusively  of  the  wealthy  as  scarcely  to  embrace  an  indigent 
family  or  individual ;  and  the  number  of  such  churches,  where 
the  gospel  is  never  preached  to  the  poor,  is  constantly  increas 
ing.  Rich  men,  instead  of  associating  themselves  with  their 
more  humble  fellow-Christians,  where  their  money  as  well  as 
their  influence  and  counsels  are  so  much  needed,  usually  com 
bine  to  erect  magnificent  churches,  in  which  sittings  are  too 
expensive  for  any  but  people  of  fortune,  and  from  which  their 
less-favored  brethren  are  as  effectually  and  peremptorily  ex 
cluded  as  if  there  were  dishonor  or  contagion  in  their  pres 
ence.  A  congregation  is  thus  constituted,  able,  without  the 
slightest  inconvenience,  to  bear  the  pecuniary  burdens  of 
twenty  churches,  monopolizing  and  consigning  to  comparative 
inactivity  intellectual,  moral,  and  material  resources,  for  want 
of  which  so  many  other  congregations  are  doomed  to  struggle 
with  the  most  embarrassing  difficulties.  Can  it  for  a  moment 
be  thought  that  such  a  state  of  things  is  desirable,  or  in  har 
mony  with  the  spirit  and  design  of  the  gospel  ? 

"  A  more  difficult  question  arises  when  we  inquire  after  a 
remedy  for  evils  too  glaring  to  be  overlooked,  and  too  grave 
to  be  tolerated,  without  an  effort  to  palliate,  if  not  to  remove 
29* 


342  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

them.  The  most  obvious  palliative,  and  one  which  has  already 
been  tried  to  some  extent  by  wealthy  churches  or  individuals, 
is  the  erection  of  free  places  of  worship  for  the  poor.  Such 
a  provision  for  this  class  of  persons  would  be  more  effectual 
in  any  other  part  of  the  world  than  in  the  United  States. 
Whether  it  arises  from  the  operation  of  our  political  system, 
or  from  the  easy  attainment  of  at  least  the  prime  necessaries 
of  life,  the  poorer  classes  here  are  characterized  by  a  proud 
spirit,  which  will  not  submit  to  receive  even  the  highest  ben 
efits  in  any  form  that  implies  inferiority  or  dependence.  This 
strong  and  prevalent  feeling  must  continue  to  interpose  serious 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  these  laudable  attempts.  If  in  a  few 
instances  churches  for  the  poor  have  succeeded  in  our  large 
cities,  where  the  theory  of  social  equality  is  so  imperfectly 
realized  in  the  actual  condition  of  the  people,  and  where  the 
presence  of  a  multitude  of  indigent  foreigners  tends  to  lower 
the  sentiment  of  independence  so  strong  in  native-born  Ameri 
cans,  the  system  is  yet  manifestly  incapable  of  general  appli 
cation  to  the  religious  wants  of  our  population.  The  same 
difficulty  usually  occurs  in  all  attempts  to  induce  the  humbler 
classes  to  worship  with  the  rich  in  sumptuous  churches,  by  re 
serving  for  their  benefit  a  portion  of  the  sittings  free,  or  at  a 
nominal  rent.  A  few  only  can  be  found  who  are  willing  to  be 
recognized  and  provided  for  as  beneficiaries  and  paupers, 
while  the  multitude  will  always  prefer  to  make  great  sacri 
fices  in  order  to  provide  for  themselves  in  some  humbler  fane. 
It  must  be  admitted  that  this  subject  is  beset  with  practical 
difficulties,  which  are  not  likely  to  be  removed  speedily,  or 
without  some  great  and  improbable  revolution  in  our  religious 
affairs.  Yet  if  the  respectable  Christian  denominations  most 
concerned  in  the  subject  shall  pursue  a  wise  and  liberal  policy 
for  the  future,  something  may  be  done  to  check  the  evil. 
They  may  retard  its  rapid  growth,  perhaps,  though  it  will 
most  likely  be  found  impossible  to  eradicate  it  altogether.  It 
ought  to  be  well  understood,  that  the  multiplication  of  mag- 


CONSECKATION   OF  GRACE   CHURCH.  343 

nificent  churches  is  daily  making  the  line  of  demarcation 
between  the  rich  and  the  poor  more  and  more  palpable  and 
impassable.  There  are  many  good  reasons  for  the  erection 
of  such  edifices.  Increasing  wealth  and  civilization  seem  to 
call  for  a  liberal  and  tasteful  outlay  in  behalf  of  religion ;  yet 
is  it  the  dictate  of  prudence  no  less  than  of  duty  to  balance 
carefully  the  good  and  the  evil  of  every  enterprise.  It  should 
ever  be  kept  in  mind,  that  such  a  church  virtually  writes  above 
its  sculptured  portals  an  irrevocable  prohibition  to  the  poor— 
'  Procul,  0  procul  este  profani.'  " 


LATE  ASPIRATIONS. 
LETTER  TO  H . 

You  have  put  to  me  that  case  which  puzzles  more  than 
almost  any  in  this  strange  world  —  the  case  of  a  man  of 
good  intentions,  with  natural  powers  sufficient  to  carry  them 
out,  who,  after  having  through  great  part  of  a  life  lived  the 
best  he  knew,  and,  in  the  world's  eye,  lived  admirably  well, 
suddenly  wakes  to  a  consciousness  of  the  soul's  true  aims. 
He  finds  that  he  has  been  a  good  son,  husband,  and  father, 
an  adroit  man  of  business,  respected  by  all  around  him,  with 
out  ever  having  advanced  one  step  in  the  life  of  the  soul. 
His  object  has  not  been  the  development  of  his  immortal 
being,  nor  has  this  been  developed ;  all  he  has  done  bears 
upon  the  present  life  only,  and  even  that  in  a  way  poor  and 
limited,  since  no  deep  fountain  of  intellect  or  feeling  has 
ever  been  unsealed  for  him.  Now  that  his  eyes  are  opened, 
he  sees  what  communion  is  possible ;  what  incorruptible 
riches  may  be  accumulated  by  the  man  of  true  wisdom. 
But  why  is  the  hour  of  clear  vision  so  late  deferred? 
He  cannot  blame  himself  for  his  previous  blindness.  His 
eyes  were  holden  that  he  saw  not.  He  lived  as  well  as 
he  knew  how. 

And  now  that  he  would  fain  give  himself  up  to  the  new 
oracle  in  his  bosom,  and  to  the  inspirations  of  nature,  all  his 
old  habits,  all  his  previous  connections,  are  unpropitious.  He 
ia  bound  by  a  thousand  chains  which  press  on  him  so  as  to 
leave  no  moment  free.  And  perhaps  it  seems  to  him  that, 
were  he  free,  he  should  but  feel  the  more  forlorn.  He  sees 

(344) 


LATE   ASPIRATIONS.  345 

the  charm  and  nobleness  of  this  new  life,  but  knows  not  how 
to  live  it.  It  is  an  element  to  which  his  mental  frame  has 
not  been  trained.  He  knows  not  what  to  do  to-day  or  to 
morrow  ;  how  to  stay  by  himself,  or  how  to  meet  others  ;  how 
to  act,  or  how  to  rest.  Looking  on  others  who  chose  the  path 
which  now  invites  him  at  an  age  when  their  characters  were 
yet  plastic,  and  the  world  more  freely  opened  before  them,  he 
deems  them  favored  children,  and  cries  in  almost  despairing 
sadness,  Why,  O  Father  of  Spirits,  didst  thou  not  earlier 
enlighten  me  also  ?  Why  was  I  not  led  gently  by  the  hand 
in  the  days  of  my  youth  ?  "  And  what,"  you  ask,  "  could  I 
reply?" 

Much,  much,  dear  H ,  were  this  a  friend  whom  I  could 

see  so  often  that  his  circumstances  would  be  my  text.  For 
no  subject  has  more  engaged  my  thoughts,  no  difficulty  is 
more  frequently  met.  But  now  on  this  poor  sheet  I  can  only 
give  you  the  clew  to  what  I  should  say. 

In  the  first  place,  the  depth  of  the  despair  must  be  caused 
by  the  mistaken  idea  that  this  our  present  life  is  all  the  time 
allotted  to  man  for  the  education  of  his  nature  for  that  state 
of  consummation  which  is  called  heaven.  Were  it  seen  that 
this  present  is  only  one  little  link  in  the  long  chain  of  proba 
tions  ;  were  it  felt  that  the  Divine  Justice  is  pledged  to  give 
the  aspirations  of  the  soul  all  the  time  they  require  for  their 
fulfilment ;  were  it  recognized  that  disease,  old  age,  and  death 
are  circumstances  which  can  never  touch  the  eternal  youth 
of  the  spirit ;  that  though  the  "  plant  man  "  grows  more  or  less 
fair  in  hue  and  stature,  according  to  the  soil  in  which  it  is 
planted,  yet  the  principle,  which  is  the  life  of  the  plant,  will 
not  be  defeated,  but  must  scatter  its  seeds  again  and  again, 
till  it  does  at  last  come  to  perfect  flower,  —  then  would  he, 
who  is  pausing  to  despair,  realize  that  a  new  choice  can 
never  be  too  late,  that  false  steps  made  in  ignorance  can 
never  be  counted  by  the  All- Wise,  and  that,  though  a 
moment's  delay  against  conviction  is  of  incalculable  weight, 


346  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

the  mistakes  of  forty  years  are  but  as  dust  on  the  balance 
held  by  an  unerring  hand.  Despair  is  for  time,  hope  for 
eternity. 

Then  he  who  looks  at  all  at  the  working  of  the  grand  prin 
ciple  of  compensation  which  holds  all  nature  in  equipoise, 
cannot  long  remain  a  stranger  to  the  meaning  of  the  beautiful 
parable  of  the  prodigal  son,  and  the  joy  over  finding  the  one 
lost  piece  of  silver.  It  is  no  arbitrary  kindness,  no  generosity 
of  the  ruling  powers,  which  causes  that  there  be  more  joy  in 
heaven  over  the  one  that  returns,  than  over  ninety  and  nine 
that  never  strayed.  It  is  the  inevitable  working  of  a  spir 
itual  law  that  he  who  has  been  groping  in  darkness  must  feel 
the  light  most  keenly,  best  know  how  to  prize  it  —  he  who 
has  long  been  exiled  from  the  truth  seize  it  with  the  most 
earnest  grasp,  live  in  it  with  the  deepest  joy.  It  was  after 
descending  to  the  very  pit  of  sorrow,  that  our  Elder  Brother 
was  permitted  to  ascend  to  the  Father,  who  perchance  said 
to  the  angels  who  had  dwelt  always  about  the  throne,  Ye 
are  always  with  me,  and  all  that  I  have  is  yours ;  but  this 
is  my  Son  ;  he  has  been  into  a  far  country,  but  could  not 
there  abide,  and  has  returned.  But  if  any  one  say,  "  I  know 
not  how  to  return,"  I  should  still  use  words  from  the  same 
record :  "  Let  him  arise  and  go  to  his  Father."  Let  him 
put  his  soul  into  that  state  of  simple,  fervent  desire  for  truth 
alone,  truth  for  its  own  sake,  which  is  prayer,  and  not  only 
the  sight  of  truth,  but  the  way  to  make  it  living,  shall  be 
shown.  Obstacles,  insuperable  to  the  intellect  of  any  ad 
viser,  shall  melt  away  like  frostwork  before  a  ray  from  the 
celestial  sun.  The  Father  may  hide  his  face  for  a  time, 
till  the  earnestness  of  the  suppliant  child  be  proved;  but 
he  is  not  far  from  any  that  seek,  and  when  he  does  re 
solve  to  make  a  revelation,  will  show  not  only  the  what, 
but  the  how ;  and  none  else  can  advise  or  aid  the  seek 
ing  soul,  except  by  just  observation  on  some  matter  of 
detail. 


LATE   ASPIRATIONS.  347 

In  this  path,  as  in  the  downward  one,  must  there  be  the 
first  step  that  decides  the  whole  —  one  sacrifice  of  the  tem 
poral  for  the  eternal  day  is  the  grain  of  mustard  seed  which 
may  give  birth  to  a  tree  large  enough  to  make  a  home  for 
the  sweetest  singing  birds.  One  moment  of  deep  truth  in 
life,  of  choosing  not  merely  honesty,  but  purity,  may  leaven 
the  whole  mass. 


FRAGMENTARY  THOUGHTS  FROM  MARGARET 
FULLER'S  JOURNAL. 

I  gave  the  world  the  fruit  of  earlier  hours  : 
O  Solitude  !  reward  me  with  some  flowers ; 
Or  if  their  odorous  bloom  thou  dost  deny, 
Rain  down  some  meteors  from  the  winter  sky ! 

Poesy.  —  The  expression  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful, 
whether  in  measured  words  or  in  the  fine  arts.  The  human 
mind,  apprehending  the  harmony  of  the  universe,  and  making 
new  combinations  by  its  laws. 

Poetry.  —  The  sublime  and  beautiful  expressed  in  measured 
language.  It  is  closely  allied  with  the  fine  arts.  It  should 
sing  to  the  ear,  paint  to  the  eye,  and  exhibit  the  symmetry  of 
architecture.  If  perfect,  it  will  satisfy  the  intellectual  and 
moral  faculties  no  less  than  the  heart  and  the  senses.  It 
works  chiefly  by  simile  and  melody.  It  is  to  prose  as  the 
garden  to  the  house.  Pleasure  is  the  object  of  the  one,  con 
venience  of  the  other.  The  flowers  and  fruits  may  be  copied 
on  the  furniture  of  the  house,  but  if  their  beauty  be  not  sub 
ordinated  to  utility,  they  lose  the  charm  of  beauty,  and  de 
generate  into  finery.  The  reverse  is  the  case  in  the  garden. 

Nature.  —  I  would  praise  alike  the  soft  gray  and  brown 
which  soothed  my  eye  erewhile,  and  the  snowy  fretwork  which 
now  decks  the  forest  aisles.  Every  ripple  in  the  snowy 
fields,  every  grass  and  fern  which  raises  its  petrified  delicacy 
above  them,  seems  to  me  to  claim  a  voice.  A  voice !  Canst 
thou  not  silently  adore,  but  must  needs  be  doing  ?  Art  thou 
too  good  to  wait  as  a  beggar  at  the  door  of  the  great  temple  ? 

(348) 


FRAGMENTARY  THOUGHTS.          349 

Woman  —  Man.  —  Woman  is  the  flower,  man  the  bee. 
She  sighs  out  melodious  fragrance,  and  invites  the  winged 
laborer.  He  drains  her  cup,  and  carries  off  the  honey.  She 
dies  on  the  stalk ;  he  returns  to  the  hive,  well  fed,  and  praised 
as  an  active  member  of  the  community. 

Action  symbolical  of  what  is  within.  —  Goethe  says,  "  I 
have  learned  to  consider  all  I  do  as  symbolical,  —  so  that  it 
now  matters  little  to  me  whether  I  make  plates  or  dishes." 
And  further,  he  says,  "  All  manly  effort  goes  from  within 
outwards." 

Opportunity  fleeting.  — I  held  in  my  hand  the  cup.  It  was 
full  of  hot  liquid.  The  air  was  cold  ;  I  delayed  to  drink,  and 
its  vital  heat,  its  soul,  curled  upwards  in  delicatest  wreaths. 
I  looked  delighted  on  their  beauty ;  but  while  I  waited,  the 
essence  of  the  draught  was  wasted  on  the  cold  air:  it  would 
not  wait  for  me;  it  longed  too  much  to  utter  itself:  and 
when  my  lip  was  ready,  only  a  flat,  worthless  sediment  re 
mained  of  what  had  been. 

Mingling  of  the  heavenly  with  the  earthly.  —  The  son  of 
the  gods  has  sold  his  birthright.  He  has  received  in  ex 
change  one,  not  merely  the  fairest,  but  the  sweetest  and  holi 
est  of  earth's  daughters.  Yet  is  it  not  a  fit  exchange.  His 
pinions  droop  powerless ;  he  must  no  longer  soar  amid  the 
golden  stars.  No  matter,  he  thinks ;  "I  will  take  her  to  some 
green  and  flowery  isle ;  I  will  pay  the  penalty  of  Adam  for 
the  sake  of  the  daughter  of  Eve ;  I  will  make  the  earth 
fruitful  by  the  sweat  of  my  brow.  No  longer  my  hands  shall 
bear  the  coal  to  the  lips  of  the  inspired  singer  —  no  longer 
my  voice  modulate  its  tones  to  the  accompaniment  of  spheral 
harmonies.  My  hands  now  lift  the  clod  of  the  valley  which 
dares  cling  to  them  with  brotherly  familiarity.  And  for  my 
soiling,  dreary  task-work  all  the  day,  I  receive  —  food. 
30 


350  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

"  But  the  smile  with  which  she  receives  me  at  set  of  sun, 
is  it  not  worth  all  that  sun  has  seen  me  endure  ?  Can  angelic 
delights  surpass  those  which  I  possess,  when,  facing  the  shore 
with  her,  watched  by  the  quiet  moon,  we  listen  to  the  tide  of 
the  world  surging  up  impatiently  against  the  Eden  it  cannot 
conquer?  Truly  the  joys  of  heaven  were  gregarious  and 
low  in  comparison.  This,  this  alone,  is  exquisite,  because 
exclusive  and  peculiar." 

Ah,  seraph !  but  the  winter's  frost  must  nip  thy  vine ;  a 
viper  lurks  beneath  the  flowers  to  sting  the  foot  of  thy  child, 
and  pale  decay  must  steal  over  the  cheek  thou  dost  adore. 
In  the  realm  of  ideas  all  was  imperishable.  Be  blest  while 
thou  canst.  I  love  thee,  fallen  seraph,  but  thou  shouldst  not 
have  sold  thy  birthright. 

"  All  for  love  and  the  world  well  lost."  That  sounds  so 
true !  But  genius,  when  it  sells  itself,  gives  up,  not  only  the 
world,  but  the  universe. 

Yet  does  not  love  comprehend  the  universe  ?  The  uni 
verse  is  love.  Why  should  I  weary  my  eye  with  scanning 
the  parts,  when  I  can  clasp  the  whole  this  moment  to  my 
beating  heart  ? 

But  if  the  intellect  be  repressed,  the  idea  will  never  be 
brought  out  from  the  feeling.  The  amaranth  wreath  will 
in  thy  grasp  be  changed  to  one  of  roses,  more  fragrant  in 
deed,  but  withering  with  a  single  sun ! 

The  Crisis  with  Gcetke.  —  I  have  thought  much  whether 
Goethe  did  well  in  giving  up  Lili.  That  was  the  crisis  in  his 
existence.  From  that  era  dates  his  being  as  a  "  Weltweise ; " 
the  heroic  element  vanished  irrecoverably  from  his  character ; 
he  became  an  Epicurean  and  a  Realist ;  plucking  flowers  and 
hammering  stones  instead  of  looking  at  the  stars.  How 
could  he  look  through  the  blinds,  and  see  her  sitting  alone  in 
her  beauty,  yet  give  her  up  for  so  slight  reasons  ?  He  was 
right  as  a  genius,  but  wrong  as  a  character. 


FRAGMENTARY  THOUGHTS.  351 

TJie  Flower  and  the  Pearl.  has  written  wonders 

about  the  mystery  of  personality.  Why  do  we  love  it  ?  In 
the  first  place,  each  wishes  to  embrace  a  whole,  and  this  seems 
the  readiest  way.  The  intellect  soars,  the  heart  clasps ;  from 
putting  "  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth  in  forty  minutes," 
thou  wouldst  return  to  thy  own  little  green  isle  of  emotion, 
and  be  the  loving  and  playful  fay,  rather  than  the  delicate 
Ariel. 

Then  most  persons  are  plants,  organic.  We  can  predict 
their  growth  according  to  their  own  law.  From  the  young 
girl  we  can  predict  the  lustre,  the  fragrance  of  the  future 
flower.  It  waves  gracefully  to  the  breeze,  the  dew  rests  upon 
its  petals,  the  bee  busies  himself  in  them,  and  flies  away  after 
a  brief  rapture,  richly  laden. 

When  it  fades,  its  leaves  fall  softly  on  the  bosom  of  Mother 
Earth,  to  all  whose  feelings  it  has  so  closely  conformed.  It 
has  lived  as  a  part  of  nature ;  its  life  was  music,  and  we  open 
our  hearts  to  the  melody. 

But  characters  like  thine  and  mine  are  mineral.  We  are 
the  bone  and  sinew,  these  the  smiles  and  glances,  of  earth. 
We  lie  nearer  the  mighty  heart,  and  boast  an  existence  more 
enduring  than  they.  The  sod  lies  heavy  on  us,  or,  if  we  show 
ourselves,  the  melancholy  moss  clings  to  us.  If  we  are  to  be 
made  into  palaces  and  temples,  we  must  be  hewn  and  chis 
elled  by  instruments  of  unsparing  sharpness.  The  process 
is  mechanical  and  unpleasing ;  the  noises  which  accompany  it, 
discordant  and  obtrusive ;  the  artist  is  surrounded  with  rub 
bish.  Yet  we  may  be  polished  to  marble  smoothness.  In 
our  veins  may  lie  the  diamond,  the  ruby,  perhaps  the  em 
blematic  carbuncle. 

The  flower  is  pressed  to  the  bosom  with  intense  emotion, 
but  in  the  home  of  love  it  withers  and  is  cast  away. 

The  gem  is  worn  with  less  love,  but  with  more  pride ;  if 
we  enjoy  its  sparkle,  the  joy  is  partly  from  calculation  of  its 
value ;  but  if  it  be  lost,  we  regret  it  long. 


352  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

For  myself,  my  name  is  Pearl.*  That  lies  at  the  begin 
ning,  amid  slime  and  foul  prodigies  from  which  only  its  un 
sightly  shell  protects.  It  is  cradled  and  brought  to  its  noblest 
state  amid  disease  and  decay.  Only  the  experienced  diver 
could  have  known  that  it  was  there,  and  brought  it  to  the 
strand,  where  it  is  valued  as  pure,  round,  and,  if  less  brilliant 
than  the  diamond,  yet  an  ornament  for  a  kingly  head.  Were 
it  again  immersed  in  the  element  where  first  it  dwelt,  now 
that  it  is  stripped  of  the  protecting  shell,  soon  would  it  blacken 
into  deformity.  So  what  is  noblest  in  my  soul  has  sprung 
from  disease,  present  defeat,  disappointment,  and  untoward 
outward  circumstance. 

For  you,  I  presume,  from  your  want  of  steady  light  and 
brilliancy  of  sparks  which  are  occasionally  struck  from  you, 
that  you  are  either  a  flint  or  a  rough  diamond.  If  the  former, 
I  hope  you  will  find  a  home  in  some  friendly  tinder-box, 
instead  of  lying  in  the  highway  to  answer  the  hasty  hoof  of 
the  trampling  steed.  If  a  diamond,  I  hope  to  meet  you  in 
some  imperishable  crown,  where  we  may  long  remain  together ; 
you  lighting  up  my  pallid  orb,  I  tempering  your  blaze. 

Dried  Ferns  about  my  Lamp-shade.  —  "What  pleasure  do 
you,  who  have  exiled  those  paper  tissue  covers,  take  in  that 
bouquet  of  dried  ferns  ?  Their  colors  are  less  bright,  and  their 
shapes  less  graceful,  than  those  of  your  shades." 

I  answer,  "  They  grew  beneath  the  solemn  pines.  They 
opened  their  hearts  to  the  smile  of  summer,  and  answered  to 
the  sigh  of  autumn.  They  remind  me  of  the  wealth  of  nature  ; 
the  tissues,  of  the  poverty  of  man.  They  were  gathered  by 
a  cherished  friend  who  worships  in  the  woods,  and  behind 
them  lurks  a  deep,  enthusiastic  eye.  So  my  pleasure  in  see 
ing  them  is  '  denkende '  and  '  menschliche. ' " 

u  They  are  of  no  use." 

"  Good !  I  like  useless  things :  they  are  to  me  the  vouchers 
of  a  different  state  of  existence." 

[*  Margaret  means  Pearl.  —  ED.] 


FRAGMENTARY  THOUGHTS.  353 

Light.  —  My  lamp  says  to  me,  "  Why  do  you  disdain  me, 
and  use  that  candle,  which  you  have  the  trouble  of  snuffing 
every  five  minutes,  and  which  ever  again  grows  dim,  ungrate 
ful  for  your  care  ?  I  would  burn  steadily  from  sunset  to  mid 
night,  and  be  your  faithful,  vigilant  friend,  yet  never  interrupt 
you  an  instant." 

I  reply,  "  But  your  steady  light  is  also  dull,  —  while  his,  at 
its  best,  is  both  brilliant  and  mellow.  Besides,  I  love  him  for 
the  trouble  he  gives ;  he  calls  on  my  sympathy,  and  admon 
ishes  me  constantly  to  use  my  life,  which  likewise  flickers  as 
if  near  the  socket." 

Wit  and  Satire. — I  cannot  endure  people  who  do  not  dis 
tinguish  between  wit  and  satire ;  who  think  you,  of  course, 
laugh  at  people  when  you  laugh  about  them ;  and  who  have 
no  perception  of  the  peculiar  pleasure  derived  from  toying 
with  lovely  or  tragic  figures. 
30* 


FAREWELL.* 

FAREWELL  to  New  York  city,  where  twenty  months  have 
presented  me  with  a  richer  and  more  varied  exercise  for 
thought  and  life,  than  twenty  years  could  in  any  other  part 
of  these  United  States. 

It  is  the  common  remark  about  New  York,  that  it  has  at 
least  nothing  petty  or  provincial  in  its  methods  and  habits. 
The  place  is  large  enough :  there  is  room  enough,  and  occu 
pation  enough,  for  men  to  have  no  need  or  excuse  for  small 
cavils  or  scrutinies.  A  person  who  is  independent,  and  knows 
what  he  wants,  may  lead  his  proper  life  here,  unimpeded  by 
others. 

Vice  and  crime,  if  flagrant  and  frequent,  are  less  thickly 
coated  by  hypocrisy  than  elsewhere.  The  air  comes  some 
times  to  the  most  infected  subjects. 

New  York  is  the  focus,  the  point  where  American  and 
European  interests  converge.  There  is  no  topic  of  general 
interest  to  men,  that  will  not  betimes  be  brought  before  the 
thinker  by  the  quick  turning  of  the  wheel. 

Too  quick  that  revolution,  —  some  object.  Life  rushes 
wide  and  free,  but  too  fast.  Yet  it  is  in  the  power  of  every 
one  to  avert  from  himself  the  evil  that  accompanies  the  good. 
He  must  build  for  his  study,  as  did  the  German  poet,  a  house 
beneath  the  bridge  ;  and  then  all  that  passes  above  and  by  him 
will  be  heard  and  seen,  but  he  will  not  be  carried  away 
with  it. 

Earlier  views  have  been  confirmed,  and  many  new  ones 

[*  Published  in  the  New  York  Tribune,  Aug.  1,  1846,  just  previous  to 
sailing  for  Europe.  —  ED.] 

(354) 


FAREWELL.  355 

opened.  On  two  great  leadings,  the  superlative  importance 
of  promoting  national  education  by  heightening  and  deepening 
the  cultivation  of  individual  minds,  and  the  part  which  is 
assigned  to  woman  in  the  next  stage  of  human  progress  in 
this  country,  where  most  important  achievements  are  to  be 
effected,  I  have  received  much  encouragement,  much  instruc 
tion,  and  the  fairest  hopes  of  more. 

On  various  subjects  of  minor  importance,  no  less  than  these, 
I  hope  for  good  results,  from  observation,  with  my  own  eyes, 
of  life  in  the  old  world,  and  to  bring  home  some  packages  of 
seed  for  life  in  the  new. 

These  words  I  address  to  my  friends,  for  I  feel  that  I  have 
some.  The  degree  of  sympathetic  response  to  the  thoughts 
and  suggestions  I  have  offered  through  the  columns  of  the 
Tribune,  has  indeed  surprised  me,  conscious  as  I  am  of  a 
natural  and  acquired  aloofness  from  many,  if  not  most  popular 
tendencies  of  my  time  and  place.  It  has  greatly  encouraged 
me,  for  none  can  sympathize  with  thoughts  like  mine,  who 
are  permanently  insnared  in  the  meshes  of  sect  or  party; 
none  who  prefer  the  formation  and  advancement  of  mere 
opinions  to  the  free  pursuit  of  truth.  I  see,  surely,  that  the 
topmost  bubble  or  sparkle  of  the  cup  is  no  voucher  for  the 
nature  of  its  contents  throughout,  and  shall,  in  future,  feel  that 
in  our  age,  nobler  in  that  respect  than  most  of  the  preceding 
ages,  each  sincere  and  fervent  act  or  word  is  secure,  not  only 
of  a  final,  but  of  a  speedy  response. 

I  go  to  behold  the  wonders  of  art,  and  the  temples  of  old 
religion.  But  I  shall  see  no  forms  of  beauty  and  majesty 
beyond  what  my  country  is  capable  of  producing  in  myriad 
variety,  if  she  has  but  the  soul  to  will  it ;  no  temple  to  com 
pare  with  what  she  might  erect  in  the  ages,  if  the  catchword 
of  the  time,  a  sense  of  divine  order,  should  become  no  more 
a  mere  word  of  form,  but  a  deeply-rooted  and  pregnant  idea 
in  her  life.  Beneath  the  light  of  a  hope  that  this  may  be,  I 
say  to  my  friends  once  more  a  kind  farewell ! 


PAET  III. 

POEMS. 


FREEDOM  AND  TRUTH. 

TO    A   FRIEND. 

THE  shrine  is  vowed  to  freedom,  but,  my  friend, 
Freedom  is  but  a  means  to  gain  an  end. 
Freedom  should  build  the  temple,  but  the  shrine 
Be  consecrate  to  thought  still  more  divine. 
The  human  bliss  which  angel  hopes  foresaw 
Is  liberty  to  comprehend  the  law. 
Give,  then,  thy  book  a  larger  scope  and  frame, 
Comprising  means  and  end  in  Truth's  great  name. 


DESCRIPTION   OF   A  PORTION  OF  THE  JOUR 
NEY  TO   TRENTON   FALLS. 

THE  long-anticipated  morning  dawns, 

Clear,  hopeful,  joyous-eyed,  and  pure  of  breath. 

The  dogstar  is  exhausted  of  its  rage, 

And  copious  showers  have  cooled  the  feverish  air, 

The  mighty  engine  pants  —  away,  away ! 

(357) 


858  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

And,  see !  they  come !  a  motley,  smiling  group  — 

The  stately  matron  with  her  tempered  grace, 

Her  earnest  eye,  and  kind  though  meaning  smile, 

Her  words  of  wisdom  and  her  words  of  mirth. 

Her  counsel  firm  and  generous  sympathy ; 

The  happy  pair  whose  hearts  so  full,  yet  ever 

Dilating  to  the  scene,  refuse  that  bliss 

Which  excludes  the  whole  or  blunts  the  sense  of  beauty. 

Next  two  fair  maidens  in  gradation  meet, 

The  one  of  gentle  mien  and  soft  dove-eyes ; 

Like  water  she,  that  yielding  and  combining, 

Yet  most  pure  element  in  the  social  cup  : 

The  other  with  bright  glance  and  damask  cheek, 

You  need  not  deem  concealment  there  was  preying 

To  mar  the  healthful  promise  of  the  spring. 

Another  dame  was  there,  of  graver  look, 

And  heart  of  slower  beat ;  yet  in  its  depths 

Not  irresponsive  to  the  soul  of  things, 

Nor  cold  when  charmed  by  those  who  knew  its  pass-word. 

These  ladies  had  a  knight  from  foreign  clime, 

Who  from  the  banks  of  the  dark-rolling  Danube, 

Or  somewhere  thereabouts,  had  come,  a  pilgrim, 

To  worship  at  the  shrine  of  Liberty, 

And  after,  made  his  home  in  her  loved  realm, 

Content  to  call  it  fatherland  where'er 

The  streams  bear  freemen  and  the  skies  smile  on  them ; 

A  courteous  knight  he  was,  of  merry  mood, 

Expert  to  wing  the  lagging  hour  with  jest, 

Or  tale  of  strange  romance  or  comic  song. 

And  there  was  one  I  must  not  call  a  page, 
Although  too  young  yet  to  have  won  his  spurs ; 
Yet  there  was  promise  in  his  laughing  eye, 


POEMS.  359 

That  in  due  time  he'd  prove  no  carpet  knight ; 
Now,  bright  companion  on  a  summer  sea, 
With  winged  words  of  gay  or  tasteful  thought, 
He  was  fit  clasp  to  this  our  social  chain. 

And  now,  the  swift  car  loosened  on  its  way, 
O'er  hill  and  dale  we  fly  with  rapid  lightness, 
While  each  tongue  celebrates  the  power  of  steam  ; 
O,  how  delightful  'tis  to  go  so  fast ! 
No  time  to  muse,  no  chance  to  gaze  on  nature ! 
Tis  bliss  indeed  if  "  to  think  be  to  groan ! " 

The  genius  of  the  time  soon  shifts  the  scene  : 

No  longer  whirled  over  our  kindred  clods, 

We,  with  as  strong  an  impulse,  cleave  the  waters. 

Now  doth  our  chain  a  while  untwine  its  links, 

And  some  rebound  from  a  three  hours'  communion 

To  mingle  with  less  favored  fellow-men ; 

One  careless  turns  the  leaves  of  some  new  volume ; 

The  leaves  of  Nature's  book  are  too  gigantic, 

Too  vast  the  characters  for  patient  study, 

Till  sunset  lures  us  with  majestic  power 

To  cast  one  look  of  love  on  that  bright  eye, 

Which,  for  so  many  hours,  has  beamed  on  us. 

The  silver  lamp  is  lit  in  the  blue  dome, 

Nature  begins  her  hymn  of  evening  breezes, 

And  myriad  sparks,  thronging  to  kiss  the  wave, 

Touch  even  the  steamboat's  clumsy  hulk  with  beauty. 

Then,  once  more  drawn  together,  cheerful  talk 

Casts  to  the  hours  a  store  of  gentle  gifts, 

Which  memory  receives  from  these  bright  minds 

And  careful  garners  them  for  duller  days. 

The  morning  greets  us  not  with  her  late  smile  ; 
Now  chilling  damp  falls  heavy  on  our  hopes, 


360  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

And  leaden  hues  tarnish  each  sighed-for  scene. 
Yet  not  on  coloring,  majestic  Hudson, 
Depends  the  genius  of  thy  stream,  whose  wand 
Has  piled  thy  banks  on  high,  and  given  them  forms 
Which  have  for  taste  an  impulse  yet  unknown. 
Though  Beauty  dwells  here,  she  reigns  not  a  queen, 
An  humble  handmaid  now  to  the  Sublime. 
The  mind  dilates  to  receive  the  idea  of  strength, 
And  tasks  its  elements  for  congenial  forms 
To  create  anew  within  those  mighty  piles, 
Those  "  bulwarks  of  the  world,"  which,  time-defying 
And  thunder-mocking,  lift  their  lofty  brows. 

Now  at  the  river's  bend  we  pause  a  while, 

And  sun  and  cloud  combine  their  wealth  to  greet  us. 

Oft  shall  the  fair  scenes  of  West  Point  return 

Upon  the  mind,  in  its  still  picture-hours, 

Its  cloud-capped  mountains  with  their  varying  hues, 

The  soft  seclusion  of  its  wooded  paths, 

And  the  alluring  hopefulness  of  view 

Along  the  river  from  its  crisis-point. 

Unlike  the  currents  of  our  human  lives 

When  they  approach  their  long-sought  ocean-mother,  - 

This  stream  is  noblest  onward  to  its  close, 

More  tame  and  grave  when  near  its  inland  founts. 

Now  onward,  onward,  till  the  whole  be  known  ; 

The  heart,  though  swollen  with  these  new  sensations, 

With  no  less  vital  throb  beats  on  for  more, 

And  rather  we'd  shake  hands  with  disappointment 

Than  wait  and  lean  on  sober  expectation. 

The  Highlands  now  are  passed,  and  Hyde  Park  flies, 

Catskill  salutes  us  —  a  far  fairy- land. 

O  mountains,  how  do  ye  delude  our  hearts  ! 

Let  but  the  eye  look  down  upon  a  valley, 


POEMS.  361 

We  feel  our  limitations,  and  are  calm  ; 

But  place  blue  mountains  in  the  distant  view, 

And  the  soul  labors  with  the  Titan  hope 

To  ascend  the  shrouded  tops,  and  scale  the  heavens. 

O,  pause  not  in  the  murky,  old  Dutch  city, 
But,  hasting  onward  with  a  renewed  steam  power, 
Bestow  your  hours  upon  the  beauteous  Mohawk ; 
And  here  we  grieve  to  lose  our  courteous  knight. 
Just  at  the  opening  of  so  rich  a  page. 

How  shall  I  praise  thee,  Mohawk  ?     How  portray 
The  love,  the  joyousness,  felt  in  thy  presence  ? 
When  each  new  step  along  the  silvery  tide 
Added  new  gems  of  beauty  to  our  thought, 
And  lapped  the  soul  in  an  Elysium 
Of  verdure  and  of  grace,  fed  by  thy  sweetness. 
O,  how  gay  Fancy  smiled,  and  deemed  it  home  ! 
This  is,  thought  she,  the  river  of  my  garden  ; 
These  are  the  graceful  trees  that  form  its  bowers, 
And  these  the  meads  where  I  have  sighed  to  roam. 
I  now  may  fold  my  wearied  wings  in  peace. 


JOUENEY  TO  TRENTON  FALLS. 

I. 

TO    MY   FRIENDS    AND    COMPANIONS. 

IP  this  faint  reflex  from  those  days  so  bright 
May  aught  of  sympathy  among  you  gain, 
I  shall  not  think  these  verses  penned  in  vain ; 

Though  they  tell  nothing  of  the  fancies  light, 
31 


362  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

The  kindly  deeds,  rich  thoughts,  and  various  grace 
With  which  you  knew  to  make  the  hours  so  fair, 

That  neither  grief  nor  sickness  could  efface 
From  memory's  tablet  what  you  printed  there. 
Could  I  have  breathed  your  spirit  through  these  lines, 

They  might  have  charms  to  win  a  critic's  smile, 

Or  the  cold  worldling  of  a  sigh  beguile. 
I  could  but  from  my  being  bring  one  tone  ; 
May  it  arouse  the  sweetness  of  your  own. 


II. 

THE   HIGHLANDS. 

I  saw  ye  first,  arrayed  in  mist  and  cloud  ; 

No  cheerful  lights  softened  your  aspect  bold  ; 

A  sullen  gray,  or  green,  more  grave  and  cold, 
The  varied  beauties  of  the  scene  enshroud. 
Yet  not  the  less,  0  Hudson  !  calm  and  proud, 

Did  I  receive  the  impress  of  that  hour 

Which  showed  thee  to  me,  emblem  of  that  power 
Of  high  resolve,  to  which  even  rocks  have  bowed ; 

Thou  wouldst  not  deign  thy  course  to  turn  aside, 
And  seek  some  smiling  valley's  welcome  warm, 

But  through  the  mountain's  very  heart,  thy  pride 
Has  been,  thy  channel  and  thy  banks  to  form. 

Not  even  the  "  bulwarks  of  the  world  "  could  bar 

The  inland  fount  from  joining  ocean's  war  ! 

III. 

CATSKILL. 

How  fair  at  distance  shone  yon  silvery  blue, 
O  stately  mountain-tops,  charming  the  mind 
To  dream  of  pleasures  which  she  there  may  find, 

Where  from  the  eagle's  height  she  earth  can  view  ! 


POEMS.  363 

Nor  are  those  disappointments  which  ensue ; 

For  though,  while  eyeing  what  beneath  us  lay, 

Almost  we  shunned  to  think  of  yesterday, 
As  wonderingly  our  looks  its  course  pursue. 

Dwarfed  to  a  point  the  joys  of  many  hours, 
The  river  on  whose  bosom  we  were  borne 
Seems  but  a  thread,  of  pride  and  beauty  shorn ; 

Its  banks,  its  shadowy  groves,  like  beds  of  flowers, 
Wave  their  diminished  heads ;  —  yet  would  we  sigh, 
Since  all  this  loss  shows  us  more  near  the  sky  ? 

IV. 

VALLEY    OP   THE    MOHAWK. 

Could  I  my  words  with  gentlest  grace  imbue, 

Which  the  flute's  breath,  or  harp's  clear  tones,  can  bless, 
I  then  might  hope  the  feelings  to  express, 

And  with  new  life  the  happy  day  endue, 

Thou  gav'st,  O  vale,  than  Tempe's  self  more  fair ! 

With  thy  romantic  stream  and  emerald  isles, 

Touched  by  an  April  mood  of  tears  and  smiles 
Which  stole  on  matron  August  unaware ; 

The  meads  with  all  the  spring's  first  freshness  green, 
The  trees  with  summer's  thickest  garlands  crowned, 

And  each  so  elegant,  that  fairy  queen 

All  day  might  wander  ere  she  chose  her  round ; 

No  blemish  on  the  sense  of  beauty  broke, 

But  the  whole  scene  one  ecstasy  awoke. 

V. 

TRENTON  FALLS,  EARLY  IN  THE  MORNING. 

The  sun,  impatient,  o'er  the  lofty  trees 
Struggles  to  illume  as  fair  a  sight  as  lies 
Beneath  the  light  of  his  joy-loving  eyes, 

Which  all  the  forms  of  energy  must  please  ; 


364  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

A  solemn  shadow  falls  in  pillared  form, 
Made  by  yon  ledge,  which  noontide  scarcely  shows, 

Upon  the  amber  radiance,  soft  and  warm, 
Where  through  the  cleft  the  eager  torrent  flows. 

Would  you  the  genius  of  the  place  enjoy, 
In  all  the  charms  contrast  and  color  give  ? 

Your  eye  and  taste  you  now  may  best  employ, 
For  this  the  hour  when  minor  beauties  live ; 

Scan  ye  the  details  as  the  sun  rides  high, 

For  with  the  morn  these  sparkling  glories  fly. 

VI. 

TRENTON  FALLS,  (AFTERNOON.) 

A  calmer  grace  o'er  these  still  hours  presides ; 

Now  is  the  time  to  see  the  might  of  form ; 
The  heavy  masses  of  the  buttressed  sides, 

The  stately  steps  o'er  which  the  waters  storm ; 
Where,  'neath  the  mill,  the  stream  so  gently  glides, 

You  feel  the  deep  seclusion  of  the  scene, 

And  now  begin  to  comprehend  what  mean 
The  beauty  and  the  power  this  chasm  hides. 
From  the  green  forest's  depths  the  portent  springs, 

But  from  those  quiet  shades  bounding  away, 

Lays  bare  its  being  to  the  light  of  day, 
Though  on  the  rock's  cold  breast  its  love  it  flings. 

Yet  can  all  sympathy  such  courage  miss  ? 

Answer,  ye  trees !  who  bend  the  waves  to  kiss. 

VII. 

TRENTON    FALLS    BY   MOONLIGHT. 

I  deemed  the  inmost  sense  my  soul  had  blessed 
Which  in  the  poem  of  thy  being  dwells, 
And  gives  such  store  for  thought's  most  sacred  cells  ; 

And  yet  a  higher  joy  was  now  confessed. 


POEMS.  365 

With  what  a  holiness  did  night  invest 

The  eager  impulse  of  impetuous  life, 

And  hymn-like  meanings  clothed  the  waters'  strife  ! 
With  what  a  solemn  peace  the  moon  did  rest 

Upon  the  white  crest  of  the  waterfall ; 
The  haughty  guardian  banks,  by  the  deep  shade, 
In  almost  double  height  are  now  displayed. 

Depth,  height,  speak  things  which  awe,  but  not  appall. 
From  elemental  powers  this  voice  has  come, 
And  God's  love  answers  from  the  azure  dome. 


SUB  ROSA,  CRUX. 

IN  times  of  old,  as  we  are  told, 
When  men  more  child-like  at  the  feet 

Of  Jesus  sat,  than  now, 
A  chivalry  was  known  more  bold 

Than  ours,  and  yet  of  stricter  vow, 
Of  worship  more  complete. 

Knights  of  the  Rosy  Cross,  they  bore 

Its  weight  within  the  heart,  but  wore 
Without,  devotion's  sign  in  glistening  ruby  bright ; 

The  gall  and  vinegar  they  drank  alone, 

But  to  the  world  at  large  would  only  own 
The  wine  of  faith,  sparkling  with  rosy  light. 

They  knew  the  secret  of  the  sacred  oil 

Which,  poured  upon  the  prophet's  head, 
Could  keep  him  wise  and  pure  for  aye. 

Apart  from  all  that  might  distract  or  soil, 

With  this  their  lamps  they  fed, 

Which  burn  in  their  sepulchral  shrines  unfading  night  and  day. 
31* 


366  LIFE    WITHOUT   AND  LIFE  WITHIN. 

The  pass-word  now  is  lost, 
To  that  initiation  full  and  free  ; 

Daily  we  pay  the  cost 
Of  our  slow  schooling  for  divine  degree. 
We  know  no  means  to  feed  an  undying  lamp  ; 
Our  lights  go  out  in  every  wind  or  damp. 

We  wear  the  cross  of  ebony  and  gold, 
Upon  a  dark  background  a  form  of  light, 

A  heavenly  hope  upon  a  bosom  cold, 
A  starry  promise  in  a  frequent  night ; 

The  dying  lamp  must  often  trim  again, 

For  we  are  conscious,  thoughtful,  striving  men. 

Yet  be  we  faithful  to  this  present  trust, 
Clasp  to  a  heart  resigned  the  fatal  must ; 
Though  deepest  dark  our  efforts  should  enfold, 
Unwearied  mine  to  find  the  vein  of  gold ; 
Forget  not  oft  to  lift  the  hope  on  high ; 
The  rosy  dawn  again  shall  fill  the  sky. 

And  by  that  lovely  light,  all  truth-revealed, 

The  cherished  forms  which  sad  distrust  concealed, 

Transfigured,  yet  the  same,  will  round  us  stand, 

The  kindred  angels  of  a  faithful  band ; 

Ruby  and  ebon  cross  both  cast  aside, 

No  lamp  is  needed,  for  the  night  has  died. 

Happy  be  those  who  seek  that  distant  day, 
With  feet  that  from  the  appointed  way 

Could  never  stray ; 

Yet  happy  too  be  those  who  more  and  more, 
As  gleams  the  beacon  of  that  only  shore, 

Strive  at  the  laboring  oar. 


POEMS.  367 

Be  to  the  best  thou  knowest  ever  true, 

Is  all  the  creed ; 
Then,  be  thy  talisman  of  rosy  hue, 

Or  fenced  with  thorns  that  wearing  thou  must  bleed, 
Or  gentle  pledge  of  Love's  prophetic  view, 

The  faithful  steps  it  will  securely  lead. 

Happy  are  all  who  reach  that  shore, 

And  bathe  in  heavenly  day, 
Happiest  are  those  who  high  the  banner  bore, 

To  marshal  others  on  the  way ; 
Or  waited  for  them,  fainting  and  way-worn, 
By  burdens  overborne. 


THE   DAHLIA,  THE   ROSE,  AND   THE   HELIO 
TROPE. 

IN  a  fair  garden  of  a  distant  land, 

Where  autumn  skies  the  softest  blue  outspread, 
A  lovely  crimson  dahlia  reared  her  head, 

To  drink  the  lustre  of  the  season's  prime ; 
And  drink  she  did,  until  her  cup  o'erflowed 
With  ruby  redder  than  the  sunset  cloud. 

Near  to  her  root  she  saw  the  fairest  rose 

That  ever  oped  her  soul  to  sun  and  wind, 
And  still  the  more  her  sweets  she  did  disclose, 

The  more  her  queenly  heart  of  sweets  did  find, 

Not  only  for  her  worshipper  the  wind, 
But  for  bee,  nightingale,  and  butterfly, 
Who  would  with  ceaseless  wing  about  her  ply, 

Nor  ever  cease  to  seek  what  found  they  still  would  f> 


368  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Upon  the  other  side,  nearer  the  ground, 
A  paler  floweret  on  a  slender  stem, 

That  cast  so  exquisite  a  fragrance  round, 
As  seemed  the  minute  blossom  to  contemn, 

Seeking  an  ampler  urn  to  hold  its  sweetness, 

And  in  a  statelier  shape  to  find  completeness. 

Who  could  refuse  to  hear  that  keenest  voice, 
Although  it  did  not  bid  the  heart  rejoice, 
And  though  the  nightingale  had  just  begun 
His  hymn  ;  the  evening  breeze  begun  to  woo, 
When  through  the  charming  of  the  evening  dew, 
The  floweret  did  its  secret  soul  disclose  ? 
By  that  revealing  touched,  the  queenly  rose 
Forgot  them  both,  a  deeper  joy  to  hope 
And  heed  the  love-note  of  the  heliotrope. 


TO   MY   FRIENDS. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    SCHILLER. 

BELOVED  friends !     Earth  hath  known  brighter  days 

Than  ours ;  we  vainly  strive  to  hide  this  truth ; 
Would  history  be  silent  in  their  praise, 

The  very  stones  tell  of  man's  glorious  youth, 
In  heavenly  forms  on  which  we  crowd  to  gaze ; 

But  that  high-favored  race  hath  sunk  in  night ; 

The  day  is  ours  —  the  living  still  have  sight. 

Friends  of  my  youth !     In  happier  climes  than  ours, 
As  some  far-wandering  countrymen  declare, 

The  air  is  perfume ;  at  each  step  spring  flowers. 
Nature  has  not  been  bounteous  to  our  prayer ; 


POEMS.  369 

But  art  dwells  here,  with  her  creative  powers, 
Laurel  and  myrtle  shun  our  winter  snows, 
But  with  the  cheerful  vine  we  wreathe  our  brows. 

Though  of  more  pomp  and  wealth  the  Briton  boast, 
Who  holds  four  worlds  in  tribute  to  his  pride,  — 

Although  from  farthest  India's  glowing  coast 

Come  gems  of  gold  to  burden  Thames'  dull  tide, 
And  bring  each  luxury  that  Heaven  denied, — 

Not  in  the  torrent,  but  the  still,  calm  brook, 

Delights  Apollo  at  himself  to  look. 

More  nobly  lodged  than  we  in  northern  halls, 
At  Angelo's  gate  the  Roman  beggar  dwells ; 

Girt  by  the  Eternal  City's  honored  walls, 
Each  column  some  soul-stiring  story  tells ; 

While  on  the  earth  a  second  heaven  dwells, 
Where  Michael's  spirit  to  St.  Peter  calls ; 

Yet  all  this  splendor  only  decks  a  tomb ; 

For  us  fresh  flowers  from  every  green  hour  bloom. 

And  while  we  live  obscure,  may  others'  names 
Through  Rumor's  trump  be  given  to  the  wind ; 

New  forms  of  ancient  glories,  ancient  shames, 
For  nothing  new  the  searching  sun  can  find, 
As  pass  the  motley  groups  of  human  kind ; 

All  other  living  things  grow  old  and  die  — 

Fancy  alone  has  immortality. 


370  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 


STANZAS. 

WRITTEN  AT   THE   AGE    OP    SEVENTEEN. 
I. 

COME,  breath  of  dawn !  and  o'er  my  temples  play ; 

Rouse  to  the  draught  of  life  the  wearied  sense ; 
Fly,  sleep !  with  thy  sad  phantoms,  far  away ; 

Let  the  glad  light  scare  those  pale  troublous  shadows  hence ! 

II. 
I  rise,  and  leaning  from  my  casement  high, 

Feel  from  the  morning  twilight  a  delight ; 
Once  more  youth's  portion,  hope,  lights  up  my  eye, 

And  for  a  moment  I  forget  the  sorrows  of  the  night. 

III. 

0  glorious  morn!  how  great  is  yet  thy  power! 
Yet  how  unlike  to  that  which  once  I  knew, 

When,  plumed  with  glittering  thoughts,  my  soul  would  soar, 
And  pleasures  visited  my  heart  like  daily  dew ! 

IV. 

Gone  is  life's  primal  freshness  all  too  soon ; 
For  me  the  dream  is  vanished  ere  my  time  ; 

1  feel  the  heat  and  weariness  of  noon, 

And  long  in  night's  cool  shadows  to  recline. 


POEMS.  .371 


FLAXMAN. 

WE  deemed  the  secret  lost,  the  spirit  gone, 
Which  spake  in  Greek  simplicity  of  thought, 
And  in  the  forms  of  gods  and  heroes  wrought 

Eternal  beauty  from  the  sculptured  stone — 

A  higher  charm  than  modern  culture  won, 
With  all  the  wealth  of  metaphysic  lore, 
Gifted  to  analyze,  dissect,  explore. 

A  many-colored  light  flows  from  our  sun ; 

Art,  'neath  its  beams,  a  motley  thread  has  spun ; 
The  prison  modifies  the  perfect  day ; 

But  thou  hast  known  such  mediums  to  shun, 
And  cast  once  more  on  life  a  pure  white  ray. 

Absorbed  in  the  creations  of  thy  mind, 

Forgetting  daily  self,  my  truest  self  I  find. 


THOUGHTS 

ON     SUNDAY    MORNING,     WHEN    PREVENTED     BT    A     SNOW 
STORM   FROM    GOING   TO    CHURCH. 

HARK  !  the  church-going  bell !     But  through  the  air 
The  feathery  missiles  of  old  Winter  hurled, 
Offend  the  brow  of  mild-approaching  Spring ; 
She  shuts  her  soft  blue  eyes,  and  turns  away. 
Sweet  is  the  time  passed  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
When,  met  with  many  of  this  fire-fraught  clay, 
We,  on  this  day,  —  the  tribe  of  ills  forgot, 


372  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

» 

Wherewith,  ungentle,  we  afflict  each  other,  — 

Assemble  in  the  temple  of  our  God, 

And  use  our  breath  to  worship  Him  who  gave  it. 

What  though  no  gorgeous  relics  of  old  days, 

The  gifts  of  humbled  kings  and  suppliant  warriors, 

Deck  the  fair  shrine,  or  cluster  round  the  pillars ; 

No  stately  windows  decked  with  various  hues, 

No  blazon  of  dead  saints  repel  the  sun ; 

Though  no  cloud-courting  dome  or  sculptured  frieze 

Excite  the  fancy  and  allure  the  taste, 

No  fragrant  censor  steep  the  sense  in  luxury, 

No  lofty  chant  swell  on  the  vanquished  soul. 

Ours  is  the  faith  of  Reason ;  to  the  earth 

We  leave  the  senses  who  interpret  her ; 

The  heaven-born  only  should  commune  with  Heaven, 

The  immaterial  with  the  infinite. 

Calmly  we  wait  in  solemn  expectation. 

He  rises  in  the  desk  —  that  earnest  man  ; 

No  priestly  terrors  flashing  from  his  eye, 

No  mitre  towers  above  the  throne  of  thought, 

No  pomp  and  circumstance  wait  on  his  breath. 

He  speaks  —  we  hear;  and  man  to  man  we  judge. 

Has  he  the  spell  to  touch  the  founts  of  feeling, 

To  kindle  in  the  mind  a  pure  ambition, 

Or  soothe  the  aching  heart  with  heavenly  balm, 

To  guide  the  timid  and  refresh  the  weary, 

Appall  the  wicked  and  abash  the  proud  ? 

He  is  the  man  of  God.     Our  hearts  confess  him. 

He  needs  no  homage  paid  in  servile  forms, 

No  worldly  state,  to  give  him  dignity : 

To  his  own  heart  the  blessing  will  return, 

And  all  his  days  blossom  with  love  divine. 

There  is  a  blessing  in  the  Sabbath  woods, 
There  is  a  holiness  in  the  blue  skies ; 


POEMS.  373 

The  summer-murmurs  to  those  calm  blue  skies 

Preach  ceaselessly.     The  universe  is  love  — 

And  this  disjointed  fragment  of  a  world 

Must,  by  its  spirit,  man,  be  harmonized, 

Tuned  to  concordance  with  the  spheral  strain, 

Till  thought  be  like  those  skies,  deeds  like  those  breezes, 

As  clear,  as  bright,  as  pure,  as  musical, 

And  all  things  have  one  text  of  truth  and  beauty. 

There  is  a  blessing  in  a  day  like  this, 
When  sky  and  earth  are  talking  busily; 
The  clouds  give  back  the  riches  they  received, 
And  for  their  graceful  shapes  return  they  fulness ; 
While  in  the  inmost  shrine,  the  life  of  life, 
The  soul  within  the  soul,  the  consciousness 
Whom  I  can  only  name,  counting  her  wealth, 
Still  makes  it  more,  still  fills  the  golden  bowl 
Which  never  shall  be  broken,  strengthens  still 
The  silver  cord  which  binds  the  whole  to  Heaven. 

0  that  such  hours  must  pass  away !  yet  oft 
Such  will  recur,  and  memories  of  this 

Come  to  enhance  their  sweetness.     And  again 

1  say,  great  is  the  blessing  of  that  hour 
When  the  soul,  turning  from  without,  begins 
To  register  her  treasures,  the  bright  thoughts, 
The  lovely  hopes,  the  ethereal  desires, 
Which  she  has  garnered  in  past  Sabbath  hours. 
Within  her  halls  the  preacher's  voice  still  sounds, 
Though  he  be  dead  or  distant  far.     The  band 

Of  friends  who  with  us  listened  to  his  word, 
With  throngs  around  of  linked  associations, 
Are  there ;  the  little  stream,  long  left  behind, 
Is  murmuring  still ;  the  woods  as  musical ; 
The  skies  how  blue,  the  whole  how  eloquent 
With  "  life  of  life  and  life's  most  secret  joy"  ! 
32 


374  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 


TO  A  GOLDEN  HEART  WORN  ROUND   THE 
NECK.* 

REMEMBRANCER  of  joys  long  passed  away, 

Relic  from  which,  as  yet,  I  cannot  part, 
O,  hast  thou  power  to  lengthen  love's  short  day  ? 

Stronger  thy  chain  than  that  which  bound  the  heart  ? 

Lili,  I  fly  —  yet  still  thy  fetters  press  me 

In  distant  valley,  or  far  lonely  wood ; 
Still  will  a  struggling  sigh  of  pain  confess  thee 

The  mistress  of  my  soul  in  every  mood. 

The  bird  may  burst  the  silken  chain  which  bound  him, 
Flying  to  the  green  home,  which  fits  him  best ; 

But,  O,  he  bears  the  prisoner's  badge  around  him, 
Still  by  the  piece  about  his  neck  distressed. 

He  ne'er  can  breathe  his  free,  wild  notes  again ; 

They're  stifled  by  the  pressure  of  his  chain. 

[*  Goethe  says,  "  A  little  golden  heart,  which  I  had  received  from  Lili  in 
those  fairy  hours,  still  hung  by  the  same  little  chain  to  which  she  had 
fastened  it,  love-warmed,  about  my  neck.  I  seized  hold  of  it  —  kissed  it." 
This  was  the  occasion  of  these  lines.  The  poet  now  was  separated  from 
Lili,  and  striving  to  forget  her  in  journeying  about.  —  ED.] 


POEMS.  375 


LINES 

ACCOMPANYING  A  BOUQUET    OF  WILD    COLUMBINE,  WHICH 
BLOOMED    LATE    IN    THE    SEASON. 

THESE  pallid  blossoms  thou  wilt  not  disdain, 

The  harbingers  of  thy  approach  to  me, 
Which  grew  and  bloomed  despite  the  cold  and  rain, 

To  tell  of  summer  and  futurity. 

It  was  not  given  them  to  tell  the  soul, 

And  lure  the  nightingale  by  fragrant  breath : 
These  slender  stems  and  roots  brook  no  control, 
And  in  the  garden  life  would  find  but  death. 
The  rock  which  is  their  cradle  and  their  home 
Must  also  be  their  monument  and  tomb  ; 
Yet  has  my  floweret's  life  a  charm  more  rare 
Than  those  admiring  crowds  esteem  so  fair, 
Self-nurtured,  self-sustaining,  self-approved : 
Not- even  by  the  forest  trees  beloved, 
As  are  her  sisters  of  the  Spring,  she  dies,  — 
Nor  to  the  guardian  stars  lifts  up  her  eyes, 
But  droops  her  graceful  head  upon  her  breast, 
Nor  asks  the  wild  bird's  requiem  for  her  rest, 
By  her  own  heart  upheld,  by  her  own  soul  possessed. 

Learn  of  the  clematis  domestic  love, 

Religious  beauty  in  the  lily  see ; 
Learn  from  the  rose  how  rapture's  pulses  move, 

Learn  from  the  heliotrope  fidelity. 
From  autumn  flowers  let  hope  and  faith  be  known  ; 
Learn  from  the  columbine  to  live  alone, 


876  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

To  deck  whatever  spot  the  Fates  provide 
With  graces  worthy  of  the  garden's  pride, 
And  to  deserve  each  gift  that  is  denied. 

These  are  the  shades  of  the  departed  flowers, 

My  lines  faint  shadows  of  some  beauteous  hours, 

Whereto  the  soul  the  highest  thoughts  have  spoken, 

And  brightest  hopes  from  frequent  twilight  broken. 

Preserve  them  for  my  sake.     In  other  years, 

When  life  has  answered  to  your  hopes  or  fears, 

When  the  web  is  well  woven,  and  you  try 

Your  wings,  whether  as  moth  or  butterfly, 

If,  as  I  pray,  the  fairest  lot  be  thine, 

Yet  value  still  the  faded  columbine. 

But  look  not  on  her  if  thy  earnest  eye, 

Be  filled  by  works  of  art  or  poesy  ; 

Bring  not  the  hermit  where,  in  long  array, 

Triumphs  of  genius  gild  the  purple  day  ; 

Let  her  not  hear  the  lyre's  proud  voice  arise, 

To  tell,  "  still  lives  the  song  though  Regnor  dies ; " 

Let  her  not  hear  the  lute's  soft-rising  swell 

Declare  she  never  lived  who  lived  so  well ; 

But  from  the  anvil's  clang,  and  joiner's  screw,  ' 

The  busy  streets  where  men  dull  crafts  pursue, 

From  weary  cares  and  from  tumultuous  joys, 

From  aimless  bustle  and  from  voiceless  noise, 

If  there  thy  plans  should  be,  turn  here  thine  eye,  — • 

Open  the  casket  of  thy  memory ; 

Give  to  thy  friend  the  gentlest,  holiest  sigh. 


POEMS.  377 


DISSATISFACTION. 

TRANSLATED    FROM   THEODORE    KORNER. 

"  Composed  as  I  stood  sentinel  on  the  banks  of  the  Elbe. 

FATHERLAND  !     Thou  call'st  the  singer 

In  the  blissful  glow  of  day ; 
He  no  more  can  musing  linger, 

While  thou  dost  mourn  a  tyrant's  sway. 

Love  and  poesy  forsaking, 
From  friendship's  magic  circle  breaking, 
The  keenest  pangs  he  could  endure 
Thy  peace  to  insure. 

Yet  sometimes  tears  must  dim  his  eyes, 
As,  on  the  melodious  bridge  of  song, 
The  shadows  of  past  joys  arise, 

And  in  mild  beauty  round  him  throng. 
In  vain,  o'er  life,  that  early  beam 
Such  radiance  shed  ;  —  the  impetuous  stream 
Of  strife  has  seized  him,  onward  borne, 
While  left  behind  his  loved  ones  mourn. 

Here  in  the  crowd  must  he  complain, 

Nor  find  a  fit  employ  ? 
Give  him  poetic  place  again, 

Or  the  quick  throb  of  warlike  joy. 
The  wonted  inspiration  give  ; 
Thus  languidly  he  cannot  live  ; 
Love's  accents  are  no  longer  near ; 

Let  him  the  trumpet  hear. 
32* 


378  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Where  is  the  cannon's  thunder  ? 

The  clashing  cymbals,  where  ? 
While  foreign  foes  our  cities  plunder, 

Can  we  not  hasten  there  ? 
I  can  no  longer  watch  this  stream  ; 
In  prose  I  die  !     O  source  of  flame  ! 
O  poesy  !  for  which  I  glow,  — 
A  nobler  death  thou  shouldst  bestow  ! 


MY   SEAL-RING. 

MERCURY  has  cast  aside 
The  signs  of  intellectual  pride, 
Freely  offers  thee  the  soul : 

Art  thou  noble  to  receive  ? 
Canst  thou  give  or  take  the  whole, 

Nobly  promise,  and  believe  ? 
Then  thou  wholly  human  art, 
A  spotless,  radiant,  ruby  heart, 
And  the  golden  chain  of  love 
Has  bound  thee  to  the  realm  above. 
If  there  be  one  small,  mean  doubt, 
One  serpent  thought  that  fled  not  out> 
Take  instead  the  serpent-rod  ; 
Thou  art  neither  man  nor  God. 
Guard  thee  from  the  powers  of  evil  ; 
Who  cannot  trust,  vows  to  the  devil. 
Walk  thy  slow  and  spell-bound  way ; 
Keep  on  thy  mask,  or  shun  the  day  — 
Let  go  my  hand  upon  the  way. 


POEMS.  379 


THE   CONSOLERS. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    GCETHE. 

"  WHY  wilt  thou  not  thy  griefs  forget  ? 
Why  must  thine  eyes  with  tears  be  wet  ? 
When  all  things  round  thee  sweetly  smile, 
Canst  thou  not,  too,  be  glad  a  while  ?  " 

"  Hither  I  come  to  weep  alone ; 
The  grief  I  feel  is  all  mine  own ; 
Dearer  than  smiles  these  tears  to  me  ; 
Smile  you  —  I  ask  no  sympathy  ! " 

"  Repel  not  thus  affection's  voice  ! 
While  thou  art  sad,  can  we  rejoice  ? 
To  friendly  hearts  impart  thy  woe ; 
Perhaps  we  may  some  healing  know." 

"  Too  gay  your  hearts  to  feel  like  mine, 
Or  such  a  sorrow  to  divine  ; 
Nought  have  I  lost  I  e'er  possessed ; 
I  mourn  that  I  cannot  be  blessed." 

"  What  idle,  morbid  feelings  these ! 
Can  you  not  win  what  prize  you  please  ? 
Youth,  with  a  genius  rich  as  yours, 
All  bliss  the  world  can  give  insures." 

"  Ah,  too  high-placed  is  my  desire  ! 
The  star  to  which  my  hopes  aspire 
Shines  all  too  far  —  I  sigh  in  vain, 
Yet  cannot  stoop  to  earth  again." 


380  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

"  Waste  not  so  foolishly  thy  prime  ; 
If  to  the  stars  thou  canst  not  climb, 
Their  gentle  beams  thy  loving  eye 
Every  clear  night  will  gratify." 

"  Do  I  not  know  it  ?     Even  now 
I  wait  the  sun's  departing  glow, 
That  I  may  watch  them.     Meanwhile  ye 
Enjoy  the  day  —  'tis  nought  to  me  ! " 


ABSENCE  OF  LOVE. 

THOUGH  many  at  my  feet  have  bowed, 

And  asked  my  love  through  pain  and  pleasure, 

Fate  never  yet  the  youth  has  showed 
Meet  to  receive  so  great  a  treasure. 

Although  sometimes  my  heart,  deceived, 
Would  love  because  it  sighed  to  feel, 

Yet  soon  I  changed,  and  sometimes  grieved 
Because  my  fancied  wound  would  heal. 


POEMS.  381 


MEDITATIONS. 

SUNDAY,  May  12,  1833. 

THE  clouds  are  marshalling  across  the  sky, 

Leaving  their  deepest  tints  upon  yon  range 

Of  soul-alluring  hills.     The  breeze  comes  softly, 

Laden  with  tribute  that  a  hundred  orchards 

Now  in  their  fullest  blossom  send,  in  thanks 

For  this  refreshing  shower.     The  birds  pour  forth 

In  heightened  melody  the  notes  of  praise 

They  had  suspended  while  God's  voice  was  speaking, 

And  his  eye  flashing  down  upon  his  world. 

I  sigh,  half-charmed,  half-pained.     My  sense  is  living, 

And,  taking  in  this  freshened  beauty,  tells 

Its  pleasure  to  the  mind.     The  mind  replies, 

And  strives  to  wake  the  heart  in  turn,  repeating 

Poetic  sentiments  from  many  a  record 

Which  other  souls  have  left,  when  stirred  and  satisfied 

By  scenes  as  fair,  as  fragrant.     But  the  heart 

Sends  back  a  hollow  echo  to  the  call 

Of  outward  things,  —  and  its  once  bright  companion, 

"Who  erst  would  have  been  answered  by  a  stream 

Of  life-fraught  treasures,  thankful  to  be  summoned,  — 

Can  now  rouse  nothing  better  than  this  echo ; 

Unmeaning  voice,  which  mocks  their  softened  accents. 

Content  thee,  beautiful  world  !  and  hush,  still  busy  mind ! 

My  heart  hath  sealed  its  fountains.     To  the  things 

Of  Time  they  shall  be  oped  no  more.     Too  long, 

Too  often  were  they  poured  forth :  part  have  sunk 

Into  the  desert ;  part  profaned  and  swollen 

By  bitter  waters,  mixed  by  those  who  feigned 

They  asked  them  for  refreshment,  which,  turned  back, 

Have  broken  and  o'erflowed  their  former  urns. 


382  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

So  when  ye  talk  of  pleasure,  lonely  world, 
And  busy  mind,  ye  ne'er  again  shall  move  me 
To  answer  ye,  though  still  your  calls  have  power 
To  jar  me  through,  and  cause  dull  aching  here. 

Not  so  the  voice  which  hailed  me  from  the  depths 
Of  yon  dark-bosomed  cloud,  now  vanishing 
Before  the  sun  ye  greet.     It  touched  my  centre, 
The  voice  of  the  Eternal,  calling  me 
To  feel  his  other  worlds ;  to  feel  that  if 
I  could  deserve  a  home,  I  still  might  find  it 
In  other  spheres,  —  and  bade  me  not  despair, 
Though  "  want  of  harmony  "  and  "  aching  void  " 
Are  terms  invented  by  the  men  of  this, 
Which  I  may  not  forget. 

In  former  times 

I  loved  to  see  the  lightnings  flash  athwart 
The  stooping  heavens ;  I  loved  to  hear  the  thunder 
Call  to  the  seas  and  mountains ;  for  I  thought 
'Tis  thus  man's  flashing  fancy  doth  enkindle 
The  firmament  of  mind  ;  'tis  thus  his  eloquence 
Calls  unto  the  soul's  depths  and  heights  ;  and  still 
I  deified  the  creature,  nor  remembered 
The  Creator  in  his  works. 

Ah  now  how  different ! 
The  proud  delight  of  that  keen  sympathy 
Is  gone ;  no  longer  riding  on  the  wave, 
But  whelmed  beneath  it :  my  own  plans  and  works, 
Or,  as  the  Scriptures  phrase  it,  my  "  inventions  " 
No  longer  interpose  'twixt  me  and  Heaven. 

To-day,  for  the  first  time,  I  felt  the  Deity, 
And  uttered  prayer  on  hearing  thunder.     This 
Must  be  thy  will,  —  for  finer,  higher  spirits 
Have  gone  through  this  same  process,  —  yet  I  think 


POEMS.  383 

There  was  religion  in  that  strong  delight, 

Those  sounds,  those  thoughts  of  power  imparted.     True, 

I  did  not  say,  "  He  is  the  Lord  thy  God," 

But  I  had  feeling  of  his  essence.     But 

"  'Twas  pride  by  which  the  angels  fell."     So  be  it ! 

But  0,  might  I  but  see  a  little  onward ! 

Father,  I  cannot  be  a  spirit  of  power ; 

May  I  be  active  as  a  spirit  of  love, 

Since  thou  hast  ta'en  me  from  that  path  which  Nature 

Seemed  to  appoint,  O,  deign  to  ope  another, 

Where  I  may  walk  with  thought  and  hope  assured ; 

"  Lord,  I  believe  ;  help  thou  mine  unbelief ! " 

Had  I  but  faith  like  that  which  fired  Novalis, 

I  too  could  bear  that  the  heart  "  fall  in  ashes," 

While  the  freed  spirit  rises  from  beneath  them, 

With  heavenward-look,  and  Phoenix-plumes  upsoaring ! 


RICHTER. 

POET  of  Nature,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 
Most  airy  of  the  fanciful,  most  keen 

Of  satirists,  thy  thoughts,  like  butterflies, 

Still  near  the  sweetest  scented  flowers  have  been 

With  Titian's  colors,  thou  canst  sunset  paint ; 
With  Raphael's  dignity,  celestial  love ; 

With  Hogarth's  pencil,  each  deceit  and  feint 
Of  meanness  and  hypocrisy  reprove ; 

Canst  to  Devotion's  highest  flight  sublime 
Exalt  the  mind ;  by  tenderest  pathos'  art 
Dissolve  in  purifying  tears  the  heart, 

Or  bid  it,  shuddering,  recoil  at  crime  ; 


384  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

The  fond  illusions  of  the  youth  and  maid, 
At  which  so  many  world-formed  sages  sneer, 

When  by  thy  altar-lighted  torch  displayed, 
Our  natural  religion  must  appear. 

All  things  in  thee  tend  to  one  polar  star ; 

Magnetic  all  thy  influences  are ; 
A  labyrinth ;  a  flowery  wilderness. 

Some  in  thy  "  slip-boxes  "  and  honeymoons 
Complain  of —  want  of  order,  I  confess, 

But  not  of  system  in  its  highest  sense. 
Who  asks  a  guiding  clew  through  this  wide  mind, 
In  love  of  nature  such  will  surely  find, 

In  tropic  climes,  live  like  the  tropic  bird, 
Whene'er  a  spice-fraught  grove  may  tempt  thy  stray ; 

Nor  be  by  car.es  of  colder  climes  disturbed : 
No  frost  the  summer's  bloom  shall  drive  away ; 

Nature's  wide  temple  and  the  azure  dome 

Have  plan  enough  for  the  free  spirit's  home. 


THE  THANKFUL  AND  THE  THANKLESS. 

WITH  equal  sweetness  the  commissioned  hours 
Shed  light  and  dew  upon  both  weeds  and  flowers. 
The  weeds  unthankful  raise  their  vile  heads  high, 
Flaunting  back  insult  to  the  gracious  sky ; 
While  the  dear  flowers,  with  fond  humility, 
Uplift  the  eyelids  of  a  starry  eye 
In  speechless  homage,  and,  from  grateful  hearts, 
Perfume  that  homage  all  around  imparts. 


POEMS.  385 


PROPHECY  AND   FULFILMENT. 

WHEN  leaves  were  falling  thickly  in  the  pale  November  day, 
A  bird  dropped  here  this  feather  upon  her  pensive  way. 
Another  bird  has  found  it  in  the  snow-chilled  April  day ; 
It  brings  to  him  the  music  of  all  her  summer's  lay. 
Thus  sweet  birds,  though  unmated,  do  never  sing  in  vain  ; 
The  lonely  notes  they  utter  to  free  them  from  their  pain, 
Caught  up  by  the  echoes,  ring  through  the  blue  dome, 
And  by  good  spirits  guided  pierce  to  some  gentle  home. 

The  pencil  moved  prophetic  :  together  now  men  read 
In  the  fair  book  of  nature,  and  find  the  hope  they  need. 
The  wreath  woven  by  the  river  is  by  the  seaside  worn, 
And  one  of  fate's  best  arrows  to  its  due  mark  is  borne. 


VERSES 

GIVEN   TO    W.    C.    WITH   A   BLANK   BOOK,   MARCH,    1844. 

THY  other  book  to  fill,  more  than  eight  years 
Have  paid  chance  tribute  of  their  smiles  and  tears ; 
Many  bright  strokes  portray  the  varied  scene  — 
Wild  sports,  sweet  ties  the  days  of  toil  between  ; 
And  those  related  both  in  mind  and  blood, 
The  wise,  the  true,  the  lovely,  and  the  good, 
Have  left  their  impress  here  ;  nor  such  alone, 
But  those  chance  toys  that  lively  feelings  own 
Weave  their  gay  flourishes  'mid  lines  sincere, 
As  'mid  the  shadowy  thickets  bound  the  deer. 
33 


386  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Accept  a  volume  where  the  coming  time 
Will  join,  I  hope,  much  reason  with  the  rhyme, 
And  that  the  stair  his  steady  feet  ascend 
May  prove  a  Jacob's  ladder  to  my  friend, 
Peopled  with  angel-shapes  of  promise  bright, 
And  ending  only  in  the  realms  of  light. 

May  purity  be  stamped  upon  his  brow, 

Yet  leave  the  manly  footsteps  free  as  now  ; 

May  generous  love  glow  in  his  inmost  heart, 

Truth  to  its  utterance  lend  the  only  art ; 

While  more  a  man,  may  he  be  more  the  child ; 

More  thoughtful  be,  but  the  more  sweet  and  mild ; 

May  growing  wisdom,  mixed  with  sprightly  cheer, 

Bless  his  own  breast  and  those  which  hold  him  dear ; 

Each  act  be  worthy  of  his  worthiest  aim, 

And  love  of  goodness  keep  him  free  from  blame, 

Without  a  need  straight  rules  for  life  to  frame. 

Good  Spirit,  teach  him  what  he  ought  to  be, 

Best  to  fulfil  his  proper  destiny, 

To  serve  himself,  his  fellow-men,  and  thee. 

These  pages  then  will  show  how  Nature  wild 

Accepts  her  Master,  cherishes  her  «hild ; 

And  many  flowers,  ere  eight  years  more  are  done, 

Shall  bless  and  blossom  in  the  western  sun. 


POEMS.  387 


EAGLES   AND   DOVES. 

GCETHE. 

A  NEW-FLEDGED  eaglet  spread  his  wings 

To  seek  for  prey  ; 

Then  flew  the  huntsman's  dart  and  cut 

The  right  wing's  sinewy  strength  away. 

Headlong  he  falls  into  a  myrtle  grove  ; 

There  three  days  long  devoured  his  grief, 

And  writhed  in  pain 

Three  long,  long  nights,  three  days  as  weary. 

At  length  he  feels 

The  all-healing  power 

Of  Nature's  balsam. 

Forth  from  the  shady  bush  he  creeps, 

And  tries  his  wing  ;  but,  ah  ! 

The  power  to  soar  is  gone  ! 

He  scarce  can  lift  himself 

Along  the  ground 

In  search  of  food  to  keep  mere  life  awake ; 

Then  rests,  deep  mourning, 

On  a  low  rock  by  the  brook  ; 

He  looks  up  to  the  oak  tree's  top, 

Far  up  to  heaven, 

And  a  tear  glistens  in  his  haughty  eye. 

Just  then  come  by  a  pair  of  fondling  doves, 
Playfully  rustling  through  the  grove. 
Cooing  and  toying,  they  go  tripping 
Over  golden  sand  and  brook  ; 
And,  turning  here  and  there, 
Their  rose-tinged  eyes  descry 


388  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

The  inly-mourning  bird. 

The  dove,  with  friendly  curiosity, 

Flutters  to  the  next  bush,  and  looks 

With  tender  sweetness  on  the  wounded  king. 

"  Ah,  why  so  sad  ?  "  he  cooes  ; 

"  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  friend  ! 

Hast  thou  not  all  the  means  of  tranquil  bliss 

Around  thee  here  ? 

Canst  thou  not  meet  with  swelling  breast 

The  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun 

On  the  brook's  mossy  brink  ? 

Canst  wander  'mid  the  dewy  flowers, 

And,  from  the  superfluous  wealth 

Of  the  wood-bushes,  pluck  at  will 

Wholesome  and  delicate  food, 

And  at  the  silvery  fountain  quench  thy  thirst  ? 

O  friend  !  the  spirit  of  content 

Gives  all  that  we  can  know  of  bliss  ; 

And  this  sweet  spirit  of  content 

Finds  every  where  its  food." 

"  O,  wise  one  ! "  said  the  eagle,  deeper  still 

Into  himself  retiring ; 

"  O  wisdom,  thou  speakest  as  a  dove ! " 


TO  A   FRIEND,  WITH    HEARTSEASE. 

CONTENT  in  purple  lustre  clad, 
Kingly  serene,  and  golden  glad  ; 
No  demi  hues  of  sad  contrition, 
No  pallors  of  enforced  submission  ; 
Give  me  such  content  as  this, 
And  keep  a  while  the  rosy  bliss. 


POEMS.  389 

ASPIRATION. 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  THE  JOURNAL  OF  HER  BROTHER   R.  P.  F. 

FORESEEN,  forespoken,  not  foredone,  — 
Ere  the  race  be  well  begun, 
The  prescient  soul  is  at  the  goal, 
One  little  moment  binds  the  whole  ; 
Happy  they  themselves  who  call 
To  risk  much,  and  to  conquer  all ; 
Happy  are  they  who  many  losses, 
Sore  defeat  or  frequent  crosses, 
Though  these  may  the  heart  dismay, 
Cannot  the  sure  faith  betray  ; 
Who  in  beauty  bless  the  Giver ; 
Seek  ocean  on  the  loveliest  river  ; 
Or  on  desert  island  tossed, 
Seeing  Heaven,  think  nought  lost. 
May  thy  genius  bring  to  thee 
Of  this  life  experience  free, 
And  the  earth  vine's  mysterious  cup, 
Sweet  and  bitter  yield  thee  up. 
But  should  the  now  sparkling  bowl 
Chance  to  slip  from  thy  control, 
And  much  of  the  enchanted  wine 
Be  spilt  in  sand,  as  'twas  with  mine, 
Let  blessings  lost  bring  consecration, 
Change  the  pledge  to  a  libation. 
For  the  Power  to  whom  we  bow 
Has  given  his  pledge,  that,  if  not  now, 
They  of  pure  and  steadfast  mind, 
By  faith  exalted,  truth  refined, 
33* 


390  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE    WITHIN. 

Shall  hear  all  music,  loud  and  clear, 
Whose  first  notes  they  ventured  here. 
Then  fear  not  thou  to  wind  the  horn 
Though  elf  and  gnome  thy  courage  scorn  ; 
Ask  for  the  castle's  king  and  queen, 
Though  rabble  rout  may  come  between, 
Beat  thee,  senseless,  to  the  ground, 
In  the  dark  beset  thee  round ; 
Persist  to  ask,  and  they  will  come. 
Seek  not  for  rest  a  humbler  home, 
And  thou  wilt  see  what  few  have  seen, 
The  palace  home  of  king  and  queen. 


THE   ONE   IN   ALL. 

THERE  are  who  separate  the  eternal  light 
In  forms  of  man  and  woman,  day  and  night ; 
They  cannot  bear  that  God  be  essence  quite. 

Existence  is  as  deep  a  verity : 
Without  the  dual,  where  is  unity  ? 
And  the  "  I  am  "  cannot  forbear  to  be ; 

But  from  its  primal  nature  forced  to  frame 

Mysteries,  destinies  of  various  name, 

Is  forced  to  give  what  it  has  taught  to  claim. 

Thus  love  must  answer  to  its  own  unrest ; 
The  bad  commands  us  to  expect  the  best, 
And  hope  of  its  own  prospects  is  the  test. 


POEMS.  391 

And  dost  thou  seek  to  find  the  one  in  two  ? 
Only  upon  the  old  can  build  the  new ; 
The  symbol  which  you  seek  is  found  in  you. 

The  heart  and  mind,  the  wisdom  and  the  will, 
The  man  and  woman,  must  be  severed  still, 
And  Christ  must  reconcile  the  good  and  ill. 

There  are  to  whom  each  symbol  is  a  mask ; 

The  life  of  love  is  a  mysterious  task ; 

They  want  no  answer,  for  they  would  not  ask. 

A  single  thought  transfuses  every  form ; 
The  sunny  day  is  changed  into  the  storm, 
For  light  is  dark,  hard  soft,  and  cold  is  warm. 

One  presence  fills  and  floods  the  whole  serene ; 
Nothing  can  be,  nothing  has  ever  been, 
Except  the  one  truth  that  creates  the  scene. 

Does  the  heart  beat,  —  that  is  a  seeming  only ; 
You  cannot  be  alone,  though  you  are  lonely; 
The  AH  is  neutralized  in  the  One  only. 

You  ask  a  faith,  —  they  are  content  with  faith  ; 
You  ask  to  have,  —  but  they  reply,  "  IT  hath." 
There  is  no  end,  and  there  need  be  no  path. 

The  day  wears  heavily,  —  why,  then,  ignore  it ; 
Peace  is  the  soul's  desire,  —  such  thoughts  restore  it ; 
The  truth  thou  art,  —  it  needs  not  to  implore  it. 

The  Presence  all  thy  fancies  supersedes, 

All  that  is  done  which  thou  wouldst  seek  in  deeds, 

The  wealth  obliterates  all  seeming  needs. 

Both  these  are  true,  and  if  they  are  at  strife, 
The  mystery  bears  the  one  name  of  Life, 
That,  slowly  spelled,  will  yet  compose  the  strife. 


392  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

The  men  of  old  say,  "  Live  twelve  thousand  years, 

And  see  the  end  of  all  that  here  appears, 

And  Moxen  *  shall  absorb  thy  smiles  and  tears." 

These  later  men  say,  "  Live  this  little  day. 

Believe  that  human  nature  is  the  way, 

And  know  both  Son  and  Father  while  you  pray ; 

And  one  in  two,  in  three,  and  none  alone, 
Letting  you  know  even  as  you  are  known, 
Shall  make  the  you  and  me  eternal  parts  of  one." 

To  me,  our  destinies  seem  flower  and  fruit 
Born  of  an  ever-generating  root ; 
The  other  statement  I  cannot  dispute. 

But  say  that  Love  and  Life  eternal  seem, 

And  if  eternal  ties  be  but  a  dream, 

What  is  the  meaning  of  that  self-same  seem  ? 

Your  nature  craves  Eternity  for  Truth ; 

Eternity  of  Love  is  prayer  of  youth ; 

How,  without  love,  would  have  gone  forth  your  truth  ? 

I  do  not  think  we  are  deceived  to  grow, 
But  that  the  crudest  fancy,  slightest  show, 
Covers  some  separate  truth  that  we  may  know. 

In  the  one  Truth,  each  separate  fact  is  true ; 

Eternally  in  one  I  many  view, 

And  destinies  through  destiny  pursue. 

This  is  my  tendency ;  but  can  I  say 

That  this  my  thought  leads  the  true,  only  way  ? 

I  only  know  it  constant  leads,  and  I  obey. 

*  Buddhist  term  for  absorption  into  the  divine  mind. 


POEMS.  393 

I  only  know  one  prayer  —  "  Give  me  the  truth, 
Give  me  that  colored  whiteness,  ancient  youth, 
Complex  and  simple,  seen  in  joy  and  ruth. 

Let  me  not  by  vain  wishes  bar  my  claim, 
Nor  soothe  my  hunger  by  an  empty  name, 
Nor  crucify  the  Son  of  man  by  hasty  blame. 

But  in  the  earth  and  fire,  water  and  air, 
Live  earnestly  by  turns  without  despair, 
Nor  seek  a  home  till  home  be  every  where !  " 


A   GREETING. 

THOUGHTS  which  come  at  a  call 
Are  no  better  than  if  they  came  not  at  all ; 

Neither  flower  nor  fruit, 

Yielding  no  root 

For  plant,  shrub,  or  tree. 

Thus  I  have  not  for  thee 

One  good  word  to  say, 

To-day, 

Except  that  I  prize  thy  gentle  heart, 
Free  from  ambition,  falsehood,  or  art, 

And  thy  good  mind, 

Daily  refined, 

By  pure  desire 

To  fan  the  heaven-seeking  fire. 
May  it  rise  higher  and  higher, 

Till  in  thee 

Gentleness  finds  its  dignity, 
Life  flowing  tranquil,  pure  and  free, 
A  mild,  unbroken  harmony. 


394  LIFE  WITHOUT  AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 


LINES  TO  EDITH,  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 

IP  the  same  star  our  fates  together  bind, 

Why  are  we  thus  divided,  mind  from  mind  ? 

If  the  same  law  one  grief  to  both  impart, 

How  couldst  thou  grieve  a  trusting  mother's  heart  ? 

Our  aspiration  seeks  a  common  aim  ; 

Why  were  we  tempered  of  such  differing  frame  ? 

But  'tis  too  late  to  turn  this  wrong  to  right ; 

Too  cold,  too  damp,  too  deep,  has  fallen  the  night. 

And  yet,  the  angel  of  my  life  replies, 
Upon  that  night  a  morning  star  shall  rise, 
Fairer  than  that  which  ruled  thy  temporal  birth, 
Undimmed  by  vapors  of  the  dreamy  earth. 

It  says,  that,  where  a  heart  thy  claim  denies, 
Genius  shall  read  its  secret  ere  it  flies ; 
The  earthly  form  may  vanish  from  thy  side, 
Pure  love  will  make  thee  still  the  spirit's  bride. 

And  thou,  ungentle,  yet  much  loving  child, 
Whose  heart  still  shows  the  "  untamed  haggard  wild," 
A  heart  which  justly  makes  the  highest  claim, 
Too  easily  is  checked  by  transient  blame. 

Ere  such  an  orb  can  ascertain  its  sphere, 
The  ordeal  must  be  various  and  severe ; 
My  prayer  attend  thee,  though  the  feet  may  fly  ; 
I  hear  thy  music  in  the  silent  sky. 


POEMS.  395 

LINES 

WRITTEN   IN   HER   BROTHER   R.   F.   F.'S   JOURNAL. 

"  Mark  the  perfect  man,  and  behold  the  upright,  for  the  end  of  that  man 
is  peace."  —  Psalms  xxxvii.  37. 

THE  man  of  heart  and  words  sincere, 

Who  truth  and  justice  follows  still, 
Pursues  his  way  with  conscience  clear, 

Unharmed  by  earthly  care  and  ill. 
His  promises  he  never  breaks, 

But  sacredly  to  each  adheres ; 
Honor's  straight  path  he  ne'er  forsakes, 

Though  danger  in  the  way  appears. 
He  never  boasts,  will  ne'er  deceive, 

For  vanity  nor  yet  for  gain ; 
All  that  he  says  you  may  believe  ; 

For  worlds  he  would  not  conscience  stain. 
If  he  desires  what  others  do, 

And  they  deserve  it  more  than  he, 
He  gives  to  them  what  is  their  due, 

Happy  in  his  humility. 
Not  to  his  friends  alone  he's  kind, 

But  his  foes  too  with  candor  sees ; 
Not  to  their  good  intentions  blind, 

Though  hopeless  their  dislike  t'  appease. 
His  eyes  are  clear,  his  hands  are  pure ; 

To  God  it  is  his  constant  prayer 
That,  be  he  rich  or  be  he  poor, 

He  never  may  wrong  actions  dare. 


396  LIFE   WITHOUT    AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

If  rich,  he  to  the  suffering  gives 
*  All  he  can  spare,  and  thinks  it  just, 

That,  since  he  by  God's  bounty  lives, 

He  should  as  steward  hold  his  trust. 
If  poor,  he  envies  not ;  he  knows 

How  covetousness  corrupts  the  heart, 
Whatever  a  just  God  bestows 

Receiving  as  his  proper  part. 
O  Father,  such  a  man  I'd  be  ; 

Like  him  would  act,  like  him  would  pray 
Lead  me  in  truth  and  purity 

To  win  thy  peace  and  see  thy  day. 


ON  A  PICTURE  REPRESENTING  THE  DESCENT 
FROM  THE    CROSS. 

BY   RAPHAEL. 

VIRGIN  Mother,  Mary  mild ! 
It  was  thine  to  see  the  child, 

Gift  of  the  Messiah  dove, 

Pure  blossom  of  ideal  love, 
Break,  upon  the  "  guilty  cross," 

The  seeming  promise  of  his  life ; 
Of  faith,  of  hope,  of  love,  a  loss, 

Deepened  all  thy  bosom's  strife, 
Brow  down-bent,  and  heart-strings  torn, 
Fainting,  by  frail  arms  upborne. 


POEMS.  397 

All  those  startled  figures  show, 

That  they  did  not  apprehend 
The  thought  of  Him  who  there  lies  low, 

On  whom  those  sorrowing  eyes  they  bend. 
They  do  not  feel  this  holiest  hour  ; 
Their  hearts  soar  not  to  read  the  power, 

Which  this  deepest  of  distress 

Alone  could  give  to  save  and  bless. 

Soul  of  that  fair,  now  ruined  form, 
Thou  who  hadst  force  to  bide  the  storm, 
Must  again  descend  to  tell 
,Of  thy  life  the  hidden  spell ; 
Though  their  hearts  within  them  burned, 
The  flame  rose  not  till  he  returned. 

Just  so  all  our  dead  ones  lie ; 

Just  so  call  our  thoughts  on  high ; 

Thus  we  linger  on  the  earth, 

And  dully  miss  death's  heavenly  birth. 


THE  CAPTURED  WILD  HORSE.* 

ON  the  boundless  plain  careering, 
By  an  unseen  compass  steering, 
Wildly  flying,  reappearing,  — 

*  This  horse,  Konick,  was  caught  early,  marked,  and  then  let  loose 
agaiii,  for  a  time,  among  the  herd.    He  still  retains  a  wild  freedom  and 
beauty  in  his  movements. 
34 


398  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

With  untamed  fire  their  broad  eyes  glowing, 
In  every  step  a  grand  pride  showing, 
Of  no  servile  moment  knowing,  — 

Happy  as  the  trees  and  flowers, 
In  their  instinct  cradled  hours, 
Happier  in  fuller  powers,  — 

See  the  wild  herd  nobly  ranging, 
Nature  varying,  not  changing, 
Lawful  in  their  lawless  ranging. 

But  hark !  what  boding  crouches  near  ? 
On  the  horizon  now  appear 
Centaur-forms  of  force  and  fear. 

On  their  enslaved  brethren  borne, 
With  bit  and  whip  of  tyrant  scorn, 
To  make  new  captives,  as  forlorn. 

Wildly  snort  the  astonished  throng, 

Stamp,  and  wheel,  and  fly  along, 

Those  centaur-powers  they  know  are  strong. 

But  the  lasso,  skilful  cast, 
Holds  one  only  captive  fast, 
Youngest,  weakest — left  the  last. 

How  thou  trembledst  then,  Konick ! 
Thy  full  breath  came  short  and  thick, 
Thy  heart  to  bursting  beat  so  quick ; 

Thy  strange  brethren  peering  round, 
By  those  tyrants  held  and  bound, 
Tyrants  fell, —  whom  falls  confound! 


POEMS.  399 


With  rage  and  pity  fill  thy  heart ; 
Death  shall  be  thy  chosen  part, 
Ere  such  slavery  tame  thy  heart. 

But  strange,  unexpected  joy ! 

They  seem  to  mean  thee  no  annoy  — 

Gallop  off  both  man  and  boy. 

Let  the  wild  horse  freely  go ! 
Almost  he  shames  it  should  be  so ; 
So  lightly  prized  himself  to  know. 

All  deception  'tis,  O  steed ! 
Ne'er  again  upon  the  mead 
Shalt  thou  a  free  wild  horse  feed. 

The  mark  of  man  doth  blot  thy  side, 
The  fear  of  man  doth  dull  thy  pride, 
Thy  master  soon  shall  on  thee  ride. 

Thy  brethren  of  the  free  plain, 

Joyful  speeding  back  again, 

With  proud  career  and  flowing  mane, 

Find  thee  branded,  left  alone, 

And  their  hearts  are  turned  to  stone  — 

They  keep  thee  in  their  midst  alone. 

Cruel  the  intervening  years, 
Seeming  freedom  stained  by  fears, 
Till  the  captor  reappears ; 

Finds  thee  with  thy  broken  pride, 
Amid  thy  peers  still  left  aside, 
Unbeloved  and  unallied; 


400  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Finds  thee  ready  for  thy  fate ; 
For  joy  and  hope  'tis  all  too  late  — 
Thou'rt  wedded  to  thy  sad  estate. 


Wouldst  have  the  princely  spirit  bowed  ? 
Whisper  only,  speak  not  loud, 
Mark  and  leave  him  in  the  crowd. 

Thou  need'st  not  spies  nor  jailers  have ; 
The  free  will  serve  thee  like  the  slave, 
Coward  shrinking  from  the  brave. 

And  thy  cohorts,  when  they  come 
To  take  the  weary  captive  home, 
Need  only  beat  the  retreating  drum. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  ESSEX, 

SPOKEN     IN     THE     CHARACTER     OF     THE     QUEEN. TRANS 
LATED    FROM    GCETHE. 

No  Essex  here!  —  unblest — they  give  no  sign. 
And  shall  such  live,  while  earth's  best  nobleness 
Departs  and  leaves  her  barren  ?     Now  too  late 
Weakness  and  cunning  both  are  exorcised. 
How  could  I  trust  thee  whom  I  knew  so  well  ? 


POEMS.  401 

Am  I  not  like  the  fool  of  fable?     He 
Who  in  his  bosom  warmed  the  frozen  viper, 
And  fancied  man  might  hope  for  gratitude 
From  the  betrayer's  seed  ?     Away  !  begone  ! 
No  breath,  no  sound  shall  here  insult  my  anguish. 
Essex  is  dumb,  and  they  shall  all  be  so ; 
No  human  presence  shall  control  my  mood. 
Begone,  I  say !     The  queen  would  be  alone ! 

(They  all  go  out.) 

Alone  and  still !     This  day  the  cup  of  woe 
Is  full ;  and  while  I  drain  its  bitter  dregs, 
Calm,  queenlike,  stern,  I  would  review  the  past. 
Well  it  becomes  the  favorite  of  fortune, 
The  royal  arbitress  of  others'  weal, 
The  world's  desire,  and  England's  deity, 
Self-poised,  self-governed,  clear  anjl  firm  to  gaze 
Where  others  close  their  aching  eyes,  to  dream. 

Who  feels  imperial  courage  glow  within 
Fears  not  the  mines  which  lie  beneath  his  throne ; 
Bold  he  ascends,  though  knowing  well  his  peril  — 
Majestical  and  fearless  holds  the  sceptre. 
The  golden  circlet  of  enormous  weight 
He  wears  with  brow  serene  and  smiling  air, 
As  though  a  myrtle  chaplet  graced  his  temples. 
And  thus  didst  thou.     The  far  removed  thy  power 
Attracted  and  subjected  to  thy  will, 
The  hates  and  fears  which  oft  beset  thy  way 
Were  seen,  were  met,  and  conquered  by  thy  courage. 
Thy  tyrant  father's  wrath,  thy  mother's  hopeless  fate, 
Thy  sister's  harshness,  —  all  were  cast  behind ; 
And  to  a  soul  like  thine,  bonds  and  harsh  usage 
Taught  fortitude,  prudence,  and  self-command, 
To  act,  or  to  endure.     Fate  did  the  rest. 
34* 


402  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

One  brilliant  day  thou  heard'st,  "  Long  live  the  Queen !  " 
A  queen  thou  wert ;  and  in  the  heart's  despite, 
Despite  the  foes  without,  within,  who  ceaseless 
Have  threatened  war  and  death,  —  a  queen  thou  art, 
And  wilt  be,  while  a  spark  of  life  remains. 
But  this  last  deadly  blow  —  I  feel  it  here  ! 
Yet  the  low,  prying  world  shall  ne'er  perceive  it. 
"Actress"  they  call  me,  —  'tis  a  queen's  vocation  ! 
The  people  stare  and  whisper  —  what  would  they 
But  acting,  to  amuse  them  ?     Is  deceit 
Unknown,  except  in  regal  palaces  ?. 
The  child  at  play  already  is  an  actor. 

Still  to  thyself,  let  weal  or  woe  betide, 

Elizabeth !  be  true  and  steadfast  ever ! 

Maintain  thy  fixed  reserve  :  'tis  just ;  what  heart 

Can  sympathize  with  a  queen's  agony  ? 

The  false,  false  world,  —  it  wooes  me  for  my  treasures, 

My  favors,  and  the  place  my  smile  confers ; 

And  if  for  love  I  offer  mutual  love, 

My  minion,  not  content,  must  have  the  crown. 

'Twas  thus  with  Essex  ;  yet  to  thee,  0  heart ! 

I  dare  to  say  it,  thy  all  died  with  him ! 

Man  must  experience  —  be  he  who  he  may  — 
Of  bliss  a  last,  irrevocable  day. 
Each  owns  this  true,  but  cannot  bear  to  live 
And  feel  the  last  has  come,  the  last  has  gone  ; 
That  never  eye  again  in  earnest  tenderness 
Shall  turn  to  him,  —  no  heart  shall  thickly  beat 
"When  his  footfall  is  heard,  —  no  speaking  blush 
Tell  the  soul's  wild  delight  at  meeting,  —  never 
Rapture  in  presence,  hope  in  absence  more, 
Be  his,  —  no  sun  of  love  illume  his  landscape ! 
Yet  thus  it  is  with  me.     Throughout  this  heart 


POEMS.  403 

Deep  night,  without  a  star !     What  all  the  host 

To  me,  —  my  Essex  fallen  from  the  heavens! 

To  me  he  was  the  centre  of  the  world, 

The  ornament  of  time.     Wood,  lawn,  or  hall, 

The  busy  mart,  the  verdant  solitude, 

To  me  were  but  the  fame  of  one  bright  image ; 

That  face  is  dust,  —  those  lustrous  eyes  are  closed, 

And  the  frame  mocks  me  with  its  empty  centre. 

How  nobly  free,  how  gallantly  he  bore  him, 

The  charms  of  youth  combined  with  manhood's  vigor  ! 

How  sage  his  counsel,  and  how  warm  his  valor,  — 

The  glowing  fire  and  the  aspiring  flame ! 

Even  in  his  presumption  he  was  kingly ! 

But  ah !  does  memory  cheat  me  ?     What  was  all, 

Since  Truth  was  wanting,  and  the  man  I  loved 

Could  court  his  death  to  vent  his  anger  on  me, 

And  I  must  punish  him,  or  live  degraded. 

I  chose  the  first ;  but  in  his  death  I  died. 

Land,  sea,  church,  people,  throne,  —  all,  all  are  nought, 

I  live  a  living  death,  and  call  it  royalty. 

Yet,  wretched  ruler  o'er  these  empty  gauds, 

A  part  remains  to  play,  and  I  will  play  it. 

A  purple  mantle  hides  my  empty  heart, 

The  kingly  crown  adorns  my  aching  brow, 

And  pride  conceals  my  anguish  from  the  world. 

But  in  the  still  and  ghostly  midnight  hour, 

From  each  intruding  eye  and  ear  set  free, 

I  still  may  shed  the  bitter,  hopeless  tear, 

Nor  fear  the  babbling  of  the  earless  walls. 

I  to  myself  may  say,  "  I  die  !  I  die  ! 

Elizabeth,  unfriended  and  alone, 

So  die  as  thou  hast  lived,  —  alone,  but  queenlike  ! " 


404  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 


HYMN  WRITTEN  FOR  A  SUNDAY  SCHOOL. 

"  And  his  mother  said  unto  him,  Son,  why  hast  thou  thus  dealt  with  us  ? 
Behold,  thy  father  and  I  have  sought  thee  sorrowing. 

"  And  he  said  unto  them,  How  is  it  that  ye  sought  me  ?  Wist  ye  not 
that  I  must  be  about  my  Father's  business  ?  "  — Luke  ii.  48,  49. 

I. 

THUS  early  was  Christ's  course  begun, 

Thus  radiant  dawned  celestial  day ; 
And  those  who  such  a  race  would  run^ 

As  early  should  be  on  the  way. 

II. 
His  Father's  business  was  his  care, 

Yet  in  man's  favor  still  he  grew : 
O,  might  we  learn,  by  thought  and  prayer, 

Like  him  a  work  of  love  to  do ! 

III. 
Wisdom  and  virtue  still  he  sought, 

Nor  ignorant  nor  vile  despised : 
True  was  each  action,  pure  each  thought, 

And  each  pure  hope  he  realized. 

IV. 
The  empires  of  this  world,  in  vain, 

Offered  their  sceptres  to  his  hand ; 
Fearless  he  trod  the  stormy  main, 

Fearless  'mid  throngs  of  foes  could  stand. 

V. 
Yet  with  his  courage  and  his  .power 

Combined  such  sweetness  and  such  love, 


POEMS.  405 


He  could  revere  the  simplest  flower, 
The  vilest  sinners  firm  reprove. 

VI. 
For  all  mankind  he  came,  nor  yet 

An  infant's  visit  would  deny ; 
Nor  friend  nor  mother  did  forget 

In  his  last  hour  of  agony. 

VII. 
O,  children,  ask  him  to  impart 

That  spirit  clear  and  temper  mild, 
Which  made  the  mother  in  her  heart 

Keep  all  the  sayings  of  her  child. 

VIII. 
Bless  him  who  said,  of  such  as  you 

His  Father's  kingdom  is,  and  still, 
His  yoke  to  bear,  his  work  to  do, 

Study  his  life  to  learn  his  will. 


DESERTION. 

TRANSLATION  OF  ONE  OF  GARCILASO'S  ECLOGUES. 

WITH  my  lamenting  touched,  the  lofty  trees 

Incline  their  graceful  heads  without  a  breeze ; 

The  listening  birds  forego  their  joyous  song, 

For  soft  and  mournful  strains,  which  echoes  faint  prolong. 

Lions  and  bears  resign  the  charms  of  sleep 
To  hear  my  lonely  plaint,  and  see  me  weep ; 


406  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

At  my  approaching  death  e'en  stones  relent. 

Yet  though  yourself  the  fatal  cause  you  know, 
Not  once  on  me  those  lovely  eyes  are  bent : 

Flow  freely,  tears !  'tis  meet  that  you  should  flow ! 

Although  for  my  relief  thou  wilt  not  come, 

Leave  not  the  place  where  once  thou  loved'st  to  roam ! 

Here  thou  mayst  rove  secure  from  meeting  me ; 

With  a  torn  heart  forever  hence  I  flee. 

Come,  if  'twere  this  alone  thy  footsteps  stayed, 

Here  the  soft  meadow,  the  delightful  shade, 

The  roses  now  in  flower,  the  waters  clear, 

Invite  thee  to  the  valley  once  so  dear. 

Come,  and  bring  with  thee  thy  late-chosen  love ; 

Each  object  shall  thy  perfidy  reprove  ; 

Since  to  another  thou  hast  given  thy  heart, 

From  this  sweet  scene  forever  I  depart. 

And  soon  kind  Death  my  sorrows  shall  remove, 

The  bitter  ending  of  my  faithful  love. 


SONG  WRITTEN  FOR  A  MAY  DAY  FESTIVAL. 

TO  BE  SUNG  TO  THE  TUNE  OF  "THE  BONNY  BOAT." 
I. 

0,  BLESSED  be  this  sweet  May  day, 

The  fairest  of  the  year ; 
The  birds  are  heard  from  every  spray, 

And  the  blue  sky  shines  so  clear ! 
White  blossoms  deck  the  apple  tree, 

Blue  violets  the  plain  ; 


POEMS.  407 

Their  fragrance  tells  the  wand'ring  bee 

That  Spring  is  come  again. 
"We'll  cull  the  blossoms  from  the  bough 

Where  robins  gayly  sing, 
We'll  wreathe  them  for  our  queen's  pure  brow, 

We'll  wreathe  them  for  our  king. 

II. 

The  winter  wind  is  bleak  and  sad, 

And  chill  the  winter  rain ; 
But  these  May  gales  blow  warm  and  glad, 

And  charm  the  heart  from  pain. 
The  sick,  the  poor  rejoice  once  more, 

Pale  cheeks  resume  their  glow, 
And  those  who  thought  their  day  was  o'er 

New  life  to  May  suns  owe. 
And  we,  in  youth  and  health  so  gay, 

Sheltered  by  love  and  care, 
How  should  we  joy  in  blooming  May, 

And  bless  its  balmy  air  I 

III. 

We  are  the  children  of  the  Spring ; 

Our  home  is  always  green  ; 
Green  be  the  garland  of  our  king, 

The  livery  of  our  queen. 
The  gardener's  care  the  seed  has  strown, 

To  deck  our  home  with  flowers  ; 
Our  Father's  love  from  high  has  shone, 

And  sent  the  needed  showers. 
Barren  indeed  the  plants  must  be, 

If  they  should  not  disclose, 
Teijded  and  cherished  with  such  toil, 

The  lily  and  the  rose. 


408  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

IV. 

Meanwhile  through  the  wild  wood  we'll  rove, 

Where  earliest  flowerets  grow, 
And  greet  each  simple  bud  with  love, 

Which  tells  us  what  to  do  — 
That,  though  untended,  we  may  bloom 

And  smile  on  all  around, 
And  one  day  rise  from  earth's  low  tomb, 

To  live  where  light  is  found. 
A  modest  violet  be  our  queen, 

Still  fragrant,  though  alone, 
Our  king  a  laurel  —  evergreen  — 

To  which  no  blight  is  known. 

V. 

So  let  us  bless  the  sweet  May  day, 

And  pray  the  coming  year 
May  see  us  walk  the  upward  way  — 

Minds  earnest,  conscience  clear ; 
That  fruit  Spring's  amplest  hope  may  crown, 

And  every  winged  day 
Make  to  our  hearts  more  dear,  more  known, 

The  hope,  the  peace  of  May ! 
So  cull  the  blossoms  from  the  bough 

Where  birds  so  gayly  sing ; 
We'll  wreathe  them  for  our  queen's  pure  brow, 

We'll  wreathe  them  for  our  king. 


POEMS.  409 


CARADORI   SINGING. 

LET  not  the  heart  o'erladen  hither  fly, 
Hoping  in  tears  to  vent  its  misery  : 
She  soars  not  like  the  lark  with  eager  cry, 
Not  hers  the  robin's  notes  of  love  and  joy  ; 
Nor,  like  the  nightingale's  love-descant,  tells 
Her  song  the  truths  of  the  heart's  hidden  wells. 
Come,  if  thy  soul  be  tranquil,  and  her  voice 
Shall  bid  the  tranquil  lake  laugh  and  rejoice ; 
Shall  lightly  warble,  flutter,  hover,  dance, 
And  charm  thee  by  its  sportive  elegance. 
A  finished  style  the  highest  art  has  given, 
And  a  fine  organ  she  received  from  heaven  : 
But  genius  casts  not  here  one  living  ray ; 
Thou  shalt  approve,  admire,  not  weep,  to-day. 


LINES 

IN    ANSWER   TO    STANZAS    CONTAINING    SEVERAL     PASSAGES 
OF  DISTINGUISHED    BEAUTY,  ADDRESSED  TO    ME  BY  . 

As  by  the  wayside  the  worn  traveller  lies, 
And  finds  no  pillow  for  his  aching  brow, 
Except  the  pack  beneath  whose  weight  he  dies,  — 

If  loving  breezes  from  the  far  west  blow, 
Laden  with  perfume  from  those  blissful  bowers 
Where  gentle  youth  and  hope  once  gilded  all  his  hours, 
As  fans  that  loving  breeze,  tears  spring  again, 
And  cool  the  fever  of  his  wearied  brain. 
35 


410  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

Even  so  to  me  the  soft  romantic  dream 

Of  one  who  still  may  sit  at  fancy's  feet, 
Where  love  and  beauty  yet  are  all  the  theme, 
Where  spheral  concords  find  an  echo  meet. 
To  the  ideal  my  vexed  spirit  turns, 
But  often  for  communion  vainly  burns. 
Blest  is  that  hour  when  breeze  of  poesy 
From  far  the  ancient  fragrance  wafts  to  me ; 
This  time  thrice  blest,  because  it  came  unsought, 
"  Sweet  suppliance,"  and  dear,  because  unbought. 


INFLUENCE   OF   THE   OUTWARD. 

THE  sun,  the  moon,  the  waters,  and  the  air, 
The  hopeful,  holy,  terrible,  and  fair ; 
Flower-alphabets,  love-letters  from  the  wave, 
All  mysteries  which  flutter,  blow,  skim,  lave  ; 
All  that  is  ever-speaking,  never  spoken, 
Spells  that  are  ever  breaking,  never  broken, — 
Have  played  upon  my  soul,  and  every  string 
Confessed  the  touch  which  once  could  make  it  sing 
Triumphal  notes;  and  still,  though  changed  the  tone, 
Though  damp  and  jarring  fall  the  lyre  hath  known, 
It  would,  if  fitly  played,  and  all  its  deep  notes  wove 
Into  one  tissue  of  belief  and  love, 
Yield  melodies  for  angel-audience  meet, 
And  paeans  fit  creative  power  to  greet. 

O,  injured  lyre!  thy  golden  frame  is  marred ; 
No  garlands  deck  thee ;  no  libations  poured    • 
Tell  to  the  earth  the  triumphs  of  thy  song ; 
No  princely  halls  echo  thy  strains  along  ; 


POEMS.  411 

But  still  the  strings  are  there ;  and  if  at  last  they  break, 

Even  in  death  some  melody  will  make. 

Mightst  thou  once  more  be  strung,  might  yet  the  power 

be  given, 

To  tell  in  numbers  all  thou  hast  of  heaven ! 
But  no !  thy  fragments  scattered  by  the  way, 
To  children  given,  help  the  childish  play. 
Be  it  thy  pride  to  feel  thy  latest  sigh 
Could  not  forget  the  law  of  harmony, 
Thou    couldst    not    live    for   bliss  —  but    thou    for   truth 

couldst  die ! 


TO   MISS   R.  B* 

A  GRACEFUL  fiction  of  the  olden  day 

Tells  us  that,  by  a  mighty  master's  sway, 

A  city  rose,  obedient  to  the  lyre ; 

That  his  sweet  strains  rude  matter  could  inspire 

With  zeal  his  harmony  to  emulate  ; 

Thus  to  the  spot  where  that  sweet  singer  sat 

The  rocks  advanced,  in  symmetry  combined, 

To  form  the  palace  and  the  temple  joined. 

The  arts  are  sisters,  and  united  all, 

So  architecture  answered  music's  call. 

In  modern  days  such  feats  no  more  we  see, 
And  matter  dares  'gainst  mind  a  rebel  be ; 
The  faith  is  gone  such  miracles  which  wrought; 
Masons  and  carpenters  must  aid  our  thought ; 
The  harp  and  voice  in  vain  would  try  their  skill 
To  raise  a  city  on  our  hard-bound  soil ; 

[*  A  sweet  and  beautiful  singer.  —  ED.] 


412  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

The  rocks  have  lain  asleep  so  many  a  year, 
Nothing  but  gunpowder  will  make  them  stir ; 
I  doubt  if  even  for  your  voice  would  come 
The  smallest  pebble  from  its  sandy  home ; 
But,  if  the  minstrel  can  no  more  create, 
For  building,  if  he  live  a  little  late, 
He  wields  a  power  of  not  inferior  kind, 
No  longer  rules  o'er  matter,  but  o'er  mind. 
And  when  a  voice  like  yours  its  song  doth  pour, 
If  it  can  raise  palace  and  tower  no  more, 
It  can  each  ugly  fabric  melt  away, 
Bidding  the  fancy  fairer  scenes  portray ; 
Its  soft  and  brilliant  tones  our  thoughts  can  wing 
To  climes  whence  they  congenial  magic  bring ; 
As  by  the  sweet  Italian  voice  is  given 
Dream  of  the  radiance  of  Italia's  heaven. 

Whether  in  round,  low  notes  the  strain  may  swell, 
As  if  some  tale  of  woe  or  wrong  to  tell, 
Or  swift  and  light  the  upward  notes  are  heard, 
With  the  full  carolling  clearness  of  a  bird, 
The  stream  of  sound  untroubled  flows  along, 
And  no  obstruction  mars  your  finished  song. 
No  stifled  notes,  no  gasp,  no  ill-taught  graces, 
No  vulgar  trills  in  worst-selected  places, 
None  of  the  miseries  which  haunt  a  land 
Where  all  would  learn  what  so  few  understand, 
Afflict  in  hearing  you  ;  in  you  we  find 
The  finest  organ,  and  informed  by  mind. 

And  as,  in  that  same  fable  I  have  quoted, 
It  is  of  that  town-making  artist  noted, 
That,  where  he  leaned  his  lyre  upon  a  stone, 
The  stone  stole  somewhat  of  that  lovely  tone, 


POEMS.  413 

And  afterwards  each  untaught  passer-by, 

By  touching  it,  could  rouse  the  melody,  — 

Even  thus  a  heart  once  by  your  music  thrilled, 

An  ear  which  your  delightful  voice  has  filled, 

In  memory  a  talisman  have  found 

To  repel  many  a  dull,  harsh,  after-sound ; 

And,  as  the  music  lingered  in  the  stone, 

After  the  minstrel  and  the  lyre  were  gone, 

Even  so  my  thoughts  and  wishes,  turned  to  sweetness, 

Lend  to  the  heavy  hours  unwonted  fleetness ; 

And  common  objects,  calling  up  the  tone, 

I  caught  from  you,  wake  beauty  not  their  own. 


SISTRUM* 

TRIUNE,  shaping,  restless  power, 
Life-flow  from  life's  natal  hour, 
No  music  chords  are  in  thy  sound  ; 
By  some  thou'rt  but  a  rattle  found  ; 
Yet,  without  thy  ceaseless  motion, 
To  ice  would  turn  their  dead  devotion. 
Life-flow  of  my  natal  hour, 
I  will  not  weary  of  thy  power, 
Till  in  the  changes  of  thy  sound 
A  chord's  three  parts  distinct  are  found. 
I  will  faithful  move  with  thee, 
God-ordered,  self-fed  energy, 
Nature  in  eternity. 

[*  A  musical  instrument  of  the  ancients,  employed  by  the  Egyptians  in 
the  worship  of  Isis.  It  was  to  be  kept  in  constant  motion,  and,  according 
to  Plutarch,  was  intended  to  indicate  the  necessity  of  constant  motion  on 
the  part  of  men  —  the  need  of  being  often  shaken  by  fierce  trials  and  agita 
tions  when  they  become  morbid  or  indolent.  —  ED.] 

35* 


414  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 


IMPERFECT  THOUGHTS. 

THE  peasant  boy  watches  the  midnight  sky  ; 

He  sees  the  meteor  dropping  from  on  high ; 

He  hastens  whither  the  bright  guest  hath  flown, 

And  finds  —  a  mass  of  black,  unseemly  stone. 

Disdainful,  disappointed,  turns  he  home. 

If  a  philosopher  that  way  had  come, 

He  would  have  seized  the  waif  with  great  delight, 

And  honored  it  as  an  aerolite. 

But  truly  it  would  need  a  Cuvier's  mind 

High  meaning  in  my  meteors  to  find. 

"Well,  in  my  museum  there  is  room  to  spare  — 

I'll  let  them  stay  till  Cuvier  goes  there ! 


SADNESS. 

LONELY  lady,  tell  me  why 

That  abandonment  of  eye  ? 

Life  is  full,  and  nature  fair ; 

How  canst  thou  dream  of  dull  despair  ? 

Life  is  full  and  nature  fair ; 

A  dull  folly  is  despair ; 

But  the  heart  lies  still  and  tame 

For  want  of  what  it  may  not  claim. 

Lady,  chide  that  foolish  heart, 
And  bid  it  act  a  nobler  part ; 
The  love  thou  couldst  be  bid  resign 
Never  could  be  worthy  thine. 


POEMS.  415 

O,  I  know,  and  knew  it  well, 

How  unworthy  was  the  spell 

In  its  silken  band  to  bind 

My  heaven-born,  heaven-seeking  mind. 

Thou  lonely  moon,  thou  knowest  well 
Why  I  yielded  to  the  spell ; 
Just  so  thou  didst  condescend 
Thy  own  precept  to  offend. 

When  wondering  nymphs  thee  questioned  why 

That  abandonment  of  eye, 

Crying,  "  Dian,*  heaven's  queen, 

What  can  that  trembling  eyelash  mean  ?  " 

Waning,  over  ocean's  breast, 
Thou  didst  strive  to  hide  unrest 
From  the  question  of  their  eyes, 
Unseeing  in  their  dull  surprise. 

Thy  Endymion  had  grown  old ; 
Thy  only  love  was  marred  with  cold ; 
No  longer  to  the  secret  cave 
Thy  ray  could  pierce,  and  answer  have. 

No  more  to  thee,  no  more,  no  more, 
Till  thy  circling  life  be  o'er, 
A  mutual  heart  shall  be  a  home, 
Of  weary  wishes  happy  tomb. 


[*  Diana  is  represented  as  driving  the  chariot  of  the  moon,  as  Apollo 
that  of  the  sun.  Mythology  states  that  while  enlightening  the  earth  as 
Luna,  the  moon,  she  beheld  the  hunter  Endymion  sleeping  in  the  forest. 
With  her  rays  she  kissed  the  lips  of  the  hunter — a  favor  she  had  never 
before  bestowed  on  god  or  man.  —  ED.] 


416  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

No  more,  no  more  —  O  words  which  sever 
Hearts  from  their  hopes,  to  part  forever ! 
They  can  believe  it  never ! 


LINES   WRITTEN  IN  AN   ALBUM.* 

SOME  names  there  are  at  sight  of  which  will  rise 

Visions  of  triumph  to  the  dullest  eyes ; 

They  breathe  of  garlands  from  a  grateful  race, 

They  tell  of  victory  o'er  all  that's  base ; 

To  write  them  eagles  might  their  plumage  give, 

And  granite  rocks  should  yield,  that  they  may  live. 

Others  there  are  at  sight  of  which  will  rise 

Visions  of  beauty  to  all  loving  eyes, 

Of  radiant  sweetness,  or  of  gentle  grace, 

The  poesy  of  manner  or  of  face, 

Spell  of  intense,  if  not  of  widest  power ; 

The  strong  the  ages  rule ;  the  fair,  the  hour. 

And  there  are  names  at  sight  of  which  will  rise 

Visions  of  goodness  to  the  mourner's  eyes ; 

They  tell  of  generosity  untired, 

Which  gave  to  others  all  the  heart  desired ; 

Of  Virtue's  uncomplaining  sacrifice, 

And  holy  hopes  which  sought  their  native  skies. 

If  I  could  hope  that  at  my  name  would  rise 
Visions  like  these,  before  those  gentle  eyes, 
How  gladly  would  I  place  it  in  the  shrine 

[*  These  lines  were  written  without  her  signature  attached.  —  ED.] 


POEMS.  417 

Where  many  honored  names  are  linked  with  thine, 
And  know,  if  lone  and  far  my  pathway  lies, 
My  name  is  living  'mid  the  good  and  wise. 

It  must  not  be,  for  now  I  know  too  well 
That  those  to  whom  my  name  has  aught  to  tell 
O'er  baffled  efforts  would  lament  or  blame. 
Who  heeds  a  breaking  reed  ?  —  a  sinking  flame  ? 
Best  wishes  and  kind  thoughts  I  give  to  thee, 
But  mine,  indeed,  an  empty  name  would  be. 


TO  S.  C. 

OUR  friend  has  likened  thee  to  the  sweet  fern, 
Which  with  no  flower  salutes  the  ardent  day, 
Yet,  as  the  wanderer  pursues  his  way, 

While  the  dews  fall,  and  hues  of  sunset  burn, 

Sheds  forth  a  fragrance  from  the  deep  green  brake, 
Sweeter  than  the  rich  scents  that  gardens  make. 

Like  thee,  the  fern  loves  well  the  hallowed  shade 
Of  trees  that  quietly  aspire  on  high ; 

Amid  such  groves  was  consecration  made 
Of  vestals,  tranquil  as  the  vestal  sky. 

Like  thee,  the  fern  doth  better  love  to  hide 
Beneath  the  leaf  the  treasure  of  its  seed, 

Than  to  display  it,  with  an  idle  pride, 
To  any  but  the  careful  gatherer's  heed  — 

A  treasure  known  to  philosophic  ken, 

Garnered  in  nature,  asking  nought  of  men ; 
Nay,  can  invisible  the  wearer  make, 
Who  would  unnoted  in  life's  game  partake. 


418  LIFE   WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

But  I  will  liken  thee  to  the  sweet  bay, 

Which  I  first  learned,  in  the  Cohasset  woods, 

To  name  upon  a  sweet  and  pensive  day 
Passed  in  their  ministering  solitudes. 

I  had  grown  weary  of  the  anthem  high 

Of  the  full  waves,  cheering  the  patient  rocks ; 
I  had  grown  weary  of  the  sob  and  sigh 

Of  the  dull  ebb,  after  emotion's  shocks ; 
My  eye  was  weary  of  the  glittering  blue 

And  the  unbroken  horizontal  line ; 
My  mind  was  weary,  tempted  to  pursue 

The  circling  waters  in  their  wide  design, 
Like  snowy  sea-gulls  stooping  to  the  wave, 

Or  rising  buoyant  to  the  utmost  air, 
To  dart,  to  circle,  airily  to  lave, 

Or  wave-like  float  in  foam-born  lightness  fair : 
I  had  swept  onward  like  the  wave  so  full, 
Like  sea  weed  now  left  on  the  shore  so  dull. 

I  turned  my  steps  to  the  retreating  hills, 
Rejected  sand  from  that  great  haughty  sea, 

Watered  by  nature  with  consoling  rills, 

And  gradual  dressed  with  grass,  and  shrub,  and  tree 

They  seemed  to  welcome  me  with  timid  smile, 

That  said,  "  We'd  like  to  soothe  you  for  a  while ; 
You  seem  to  have  been  treated  by  the  sea 
In  the  same  way  that  long  ago  were  we." 

They  had  not  much  to  boast,  those  gentle  slopes, 
For  the  wild  gambols  of  the  sea-sent  breeze 

Had  mocked  at  many  of  their  quiet  hopes, 

And  bent  and  dwarfed  their  fondly  cherished  trees ; 

Yet  even  in  those  marks  of  by-past  wind. 

There  was  a  tender  stilling  for  my  mind. 


POEMS.  419 

Hiding  within  a  small  but  thick-set  wood, 

I  soon  forgot  the  haughty,  chiding  flood. 

The  sheep  bell's  tinkle  on  the  drowsy  ear, 

With  the  bird's  chirp,  so  short,  and  light,  and  clear, 

Composed  a  melody  that  filled  my  heart 

With  flower-like  growths  of  childish,  artless  art, 

And  of  the  tender,  tranquil  life  I  lived  apart. 

It  was  an  hour  of  pure  tranquillity, 
Like  to  the  autumn  sweetness  of  thine  eye, 
Which  pries  not,  seeks  not,  and  yet  clearly  sees  — 
Which  wooes  not,  beams  not,  yet  is  sure  to  please. 
Hours  passed,  and  sunset  called  me  to  return 
Where  its  sad  glories  on  the  cold  wave  burn. 

Rising  from  my  kind  bed  of  thick-strewn  leaves, 
A  fragrance  the  astonished  sense  receives, 
Ambrosial,  searching,  yet  retiring,  mild : 
Of  that  soft  scene  the  soul  was  it?  or  child? 
'Twas  the  sweet  bay  I  had  unwitting  spread, 
A  pillow  for  my  senseless,  throbbing  head, 
And  which,  like  all  the  sweetest  things,  demands, 
To  make  it  speak,  the  grasp  of  alien  hands. 

All  that  this  scene  did  in  that  moment  tell, 

I  since  have  read,  O  wise,  mild  friend !  in  thee. 

Pardon  the  rude  grasp,  its  sincerity, 
And  feel  that  I,  at  least,  have  known  thee  well. 
Grudge  not  the  green  leaves  ravished  from  thy  stem, 

Their  music,  should  I  live,  muse-like  to  tell ; 
Thou  wilt,  in  fresher  green  forgetting  them, 

Send  others  to  console  me  for  farewell. 
Thou  wilt  see  why  the  dim  word  of  regret 
Was  made  the  one  to  rhyme  with  Margaret. 


420  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

But  to  the  Oriental  parent  tongue, 

Sunrise  of  Nature,  does  my  chosen  name, 
My  name  of  Leila,  as  a  spell,  belong, 

Teaching  the  meaning  of  each  temporal  blame ; 
I  chose  it  by  the  sound,  not  knowing  why ; 

But  since  I  know  that  Leila  stands  for  night, 
I  own  that  sable  mantle  of  the  sky, 

Through  which  pierce,  gem-like,  points  of  distant  light ; 
As  sorrow  truths,  so  night  brings  out  her  stars ; 

O,  add  not,  bard !  that  those  stars  shine  too  late ! 
While  earth  grows  green  amid  the  ocean  jars, 

And  trumpets  yet  shall  wake  the  slain  of  her  long 
century-wars. 


LINES   WRITTEN    IN    BOSTON    ON  A   BEAUTI 
FUL   AUTUMNAL   DAY. 

As  late  we  lived  upon  the  gentle  stream, 

Nature  refused  us  smiles  and  kindly  airs  ; 
The  sun  but  rarely  deigned  a  pallid  gleam  ; 

Then  clouds  came  instantly,  like  glooms  and  tears, 
Upon  the  timid  flickerings  of  our  hope  ; 

The  moon,  amid  the  thick  mists  of  the  night, 
Had  scarcely  power  her  gentle  eye  to  ope, 

And  climb  the  heavenly  steeps.     A  moment  bright 
Shimmered  the  hectic  leaves,  then  rudely  torn 

By  winds  that  sobbed  to  see  the  wreck  they  made, 
Upon  the  amber  waves  were  thickly  borne 

Adonis'  gardens  for  the  realms  of  shade, 
While  thoughts  of  beauty  past  all  wish  for  livelier  life  forbade. 


POEMS.  421 

So  sped  the  many  days  of  tranquil  life, 

And  on  the  stream,  or  by  the  mill's  bright  fire, 

The  wailing  winds  had  told  of  distant  strife, 
Still  bade  us  for  the  moment  yield  desire 
To  think,  to  feel,  the  moment  gave,  —  we  needed  not  aspire  ! 

Returning  here,  no  harvest  fields  I  see, 

Nor  russet  beauty  of  the  thoughtful  year. 
Where  is  the  honey  of  the  city  bee  ? 

No  leaves  upon  this  muddy  stream  appear. 
The  housekeeper  is  getting  in  his  coal, 

The  lecturer  his  showiest  thoughts  is  selling ; 
I  hear  of  Major  Somebody,  the  Pole, 

And  Mr.  Lyell,  how  rocks  grow,  is  telling ; 
But  not  a  breath  of  thoughtful  poesy 

Does  any  social  impulse  bring  to  me  ; 
But  many  cares,  sad  thoughts  of  men  unwise, 

Base  yieldings,  and  unransomed  destinies, 

Hopes  uninstructed,  and  unhallowed  ties. 

Yet  here  the  sun  smiles  sweet  as  heavenly  love, 

Upon  the  eve  of  earthly  severance  ; 
The  youthfulest  tender  clouds  float  all  above, 

And  earth  lies  steeped  in  odors  like  a  trance. 
The  moon  looks  down  as  though  she  ne'er  could  leave  us, 
And    these    last    trembling    leaves    sigh,   "  Must   they   too 

deceive  us  ?  " 

Surely  some  life  is  living  in  this  light, 
Truer  than  mine  some  soul  received  last  night ; 
I  cannot  freely  greet  this  beauteous  day, 
But  does  not  thy  heart  swell  to  hail  the  genial  ray  ? 
I  would  not  nature  these  last  loving  words  in  vain  should  say. 
36 


422  LIFE  WITHOUT   AND   LIFE   WITHIN. 

TO  E.  C. 

WITH  HERBERT'S  POEMS. 

DOST  thou  remember  that  fair  summer's  day, 

As,  sick  and  weary  on  my  couch  I  lay, 

Thou  broughtst  this  little  book,  and  didst  diffuse 

O'er  my  dark  hour  the  light  of  Herbert's  muse  ? 

The  "  Elixir,"  and  "  True  Hymn,"  were  then  thy  choice, 

And  the  high  strain  gained  sweetness  from  thy  voice. 

The  book,  before  that  day  to  me  unknown, 

I  took  to  heart  at  once,  and  made  my  own. 

Three  winters  and  three  summers  since  have  passed, 
And  bitter  griefs  the  hearts  of  both  have  tried ; 

Thy  sympathy  is  lost  to  me  at  last ; 

A  dearer  love  has  torn  thee  from  my  side ; 

Scenes,  friends,  to  me  unknown,  now  claim  thy  care ; 

No  more  thy  joys  or  griefs  I  soothe  or  share ; 

No  more  thy  lovely  form  my  eye  shall  bless ; 

The  gentle  smile,  the  timid,  mute  caress, 
No  more  shall  break  the  icy  chains  which  may  my  heart 
oppress. 

New  duties  claim  us  both  ;  indulgent  Heaven 
Ten  years  of  mutual  love  to  us  had  given ; 
The  plants  from  early  youth  together  grew, 
Together  all  youth's  sun  and  tempests  knew. 
At  age  mature  arrived,  thou,  graceful  vine  ! 
Didst  seek  a  sheltering  tree  round  which  to  twine ; 
While  I,  like  northern  fir,  must  be  content 
To  clasp  the  rock  which   gave    my  youth  its  scanty  nour 
ishment. 


POEMS.  423 

The  world  for  which  we  sighed  is  with  us  now ; 
No  longer  musing  on  the  why  or  how, 
What  really  does  exist  we  now  must  meet ; 
Life's  dusty  highway  is  beneath  our  feet ; 
Life's  fainting  pilgrims  claim  our  ministry, 
And  the  whole  scene  speaks  stern  reality. 

Say,  in  the  tasks  reality  has  brought, 

Keepst  thou  the  plan  that  pleased  thy  childish  thought  ? 

Does  Herbert's  "  Hymn  "  in  thy  heart  echo  now  ? 

Herbert's  "  Elixir  "  in  thy  bosom  glow  ? 

In  Herbert's  "  Temper  "  dost  thou  strive  to  be  ? 

Does  Herbert's  "  Pearl "  seem  the  true  pearl  to  thee  ? 

O,  if  'tis  so,  I  have  not  prayed  in  vain !  — 

My  friend,  my  sister,  we  shall  meet  again. 

I  dare  not  say  that  /  am  always  true 

To  the  vocation  which  my  young  thought  knew  ; 

But  the  Great  Spirit  blesses  me,  and  still, 

Though  clouds  may  darken  o'er  the  heavenly  will, 

Upon  the  hidden  sun  my  thoughts  can  rest, 

And  oft  the  rainbow  glitters  in  the  west. 

This  earth  no  more  seems  all  the  world  to  me ; 

Before  me  shines  a  far  eternity, 

Whose  laws  to  me,  when  thought  is  calmly  poised, 

Suffice,  as  they  to  angels  have  sufficed. 

I  know  the  thunder  has  not  ceased  to  roll, 

Not  all  the  iron  yet  has  pierced  my  soul ; 

I  know  no  earthly  honors  wait  for  me, 

No  earthly  love  my  heart  shall  satisfy. 

Tears,  of  these  eyes  still  oft  the  guests  must  be, 

Long  hours  be  borne,  of  chilling  apathy ; 

Still  harder  teachings  come  to  make  me  wise, 

And  life's  best  blood  must  seal  the  sacrifice. 


424  LIFE   WITHOUT  AND  LIFE   WITHIN. 

But  He  who  still  seems  nearer  and  more  bright, 
Nor  from  my  seeking  eye  withholds  his  light, 
Will  not  forsake  me,  for  his  pledge  is  given ; 
Virtue  shall  teach  the  soul  its  way  to  heaven. 

O,  pray  for  me,  and  I  for  thee  will  pray  ; 
And  more  than  loving  words  we  used  to  say 
Shall  this  avail.     But  little  more  we  meet 
In  life  —  ah,  how  the  years  begin  to  fleet ! 
Ask  —  pray  that  I  may  seek  beauty  and  truth  ; 
In  their  high  sphere  we  shall  renew  our  youth. 
On  wings  of  steadfast  faith  there  mayst  thou  soar, 
And  my  soul  fret  at  barriers  no  more ! 


